


Broken Things

by fandomsandcake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, M/M, Major Blasphemy, Slow Burn, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 146,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomsandcake/pseuds/fandomsandcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one is a Winchester or, by default, associated with a Winchester in any way fathomable, nothing is ever simple.<br/>Castiel disobeys Heaven, and he should be dead, but instead he’s condemned to a slow fall: three months of ever fading purity until he is completely and utterly human. Dean, too, is broken, and may never be whole again, Castiel is becoming more shattered with each passing day and Sam is paving the way to his own doom with bricks of good intentions.<br/>As the months continue to tick by and the world continues to turn, through the eternal and crushing darkness there is a pinprick of light, a brief solace that comes in the form of whispered words and trembling hands, but when the universe is seemingly against them, finger on the trigger and ready to fire, it’s only a matter of time before that too is broken, and then Dean and Castiel are left fumbling through the dark, nothing to hold to but each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> [Set loosely toward the end of Season 4]  
> As for warnings associated with this fic, there are all the usual, canonical things, such as Dean drinking away his feelings and young women in not much clothing getting killed violently by evil things and torture and blah blah blah, and no, I'm not going to tell you whether the 'Character Death' is major or minor because that's a spoiler so shut the fuck up.  
> (For full notes and thank-you's and crap see the end of the work.)

Up until recently, Castiel had never been one to disobey orders. He is, after all, an Angel of the Lord, and as Dean Winchester would say, obedience kind of goes in the job description.

Up until recently, Castiel had also been a respected warrior of God. Now he is – in the eyes of his brothers – weak. He has allowed himself to become too close to the humans, almost becoming one of them, and for an Angel of the Lord, this is hardly acceptable behaviour.

Despite what their Father said, Angels are superior to humans, and they know it. They were designed to be perfect in every aspect of the word. Instead, they are expected to bow to these _creatures_ , these filthy beings of mud and fire, some who are barely more than demons themselves. Where angels are righteous, humans are built on sin. Where angels fight only in the name of their Father, humans wage wars for no other reason than greed and envy. None of the angels ever openly say this of course, because then they would end up with Lucifer in Hell, and that is hardly a desirable outcome, but they all think it.

Even the most righteous humans have sinned, and for what? So that they may continue on with their insignificant, petty existence; maybe indulge themselves, maybe push their way to the top of the success ladder, or maybe just allow themselves to be consumed by sloth and gluttony. Humans pollute the earth, God’s proudest creation, with their toxic chemicals; they annihilate entire cities just to prove a point and they stuff themselves full of rich food while their brothers are starving to death.

Up until recently, Castiel had wholeheartedly agreed with his family on this matter. Now he thinks that it is, as Dean Winchester would say, absolute bullshit.

This is ultimately why Castiel, the Angel of Thursday, loses his grace.


	2. Chapter One

It’s the 26th of November when it begins.

Castiel is flying somewhere above Canada, spreading his midnight-blue wings against the bitter northern wind and thinking how remarkable it is that while winter is all but upon this part of the world, other nations are enjoying the first tastes of summer. Once upon a time, he would have added how amazing it is that his Father has bestowed so much detail upon this planet, but now… now he puts these small wonders more down to evolution and nature than anything his Father may or may not have done. 

This lack of faith alarms him. He should not be feeling this doubt, because it is wrong and goes against everything it means to be an angel. Emotions are flaws. Emotions are weaknesses. Along with free will, he thinks bitterly, emotions are all that stand between angels and mankind; without the stoic mindset that they were designed to possess, angels may as well just be extremely powerful, somewhat egotistical humans.

He sighs against the wind and spreads his wings further, enjoying the freedom associated with flying and almost wishing that he could stay this way forever; separate from the other angels and demons and the looming threat of the apocalypse, a non-corporeal wave of intention and virtue and not much else. He could easily enough just do what Gabriel did all those decades ago and desert heaven in favour of a (debatably) lesser existence, but the thought of abandoning the Winchester’s, Dean in particular, makes him feel uncomfortable. 

This as well alarms him. Dean Winchester is a human, and hardly a saint-like one at that, but if it came to it, Castiel believes he would be willing to lay down his life for him. Dean Winchester is good. He is not how Castiel had first imagined him to be – in fact he could not be much further from that – but he is, nonetheless, incomparably brave, loyal and in his own manner, righteous. 

Sam Winchester is good as well, but he is also corrupted. He is doing it all in the name of what it right, but the road on which he travels faces in the entire opposite direction. Yes, Sam Winchester is good, but he is, and never will be, as good as his brother. Of this, Castiel is certain. 

It is then that Castiel feels a stinging on the inside of his skull, a sharp sensation, slicing through his thoughts and leaving nothing but a high-pitched ringing. It is the voices of his brothers and sisters, _screaming_. Castiel feels himself on the verge on panic, because he can sense the burn of their thoughts and the urgency with which they fly toward heaven, thousands upon thousands of wings beating all at once all across the universe. He adjusts his flight, turning to follow them, but then the screams clear and he can hear them singing. _He has returned_ , they cry, one voice indiscernible from the next. _Our Father has returned_. 

If flying were not a metaphysical thing, then Castiel believes he would have just fallen from the sky, shock freezing him. _Their father has returned_. Castiel almost does not believe it. For God to finally return, after decades, possibly _centuries_ , of hiatus, is almost a miracle. For many years Castiel had held onto the hope that their father was still present, but a gut instinct had told him otherwise, and after recent events, this instinct had proven to be correct. But now He is back, and the choirs of heaven sing His name and rejoice as they have not rejoiced for tens of thousands of years.

Castiel turns around and soars toward heaven, hopeful for the first time since seal number one was broken. God is back; He can fix it all and stop Lilith, stop the Apocalypse, stop Zachariah and the higher-class angels from aiding the release of Lucifer. There can be peace. If one could smile when one was in a wholly non-corporeal form, then Castiel would be beaming. He is nothing more than a foot-soldier – and a poor excuse for one – but he loves his Father just as much as Michael or Raphael or any of his high-class brothers.

So as could be imagined, Castiel is, once again, dumbfounded when he hears his name being called. _Castiel_ , a thousand voices whisper at once. _Castiel, come_. _Castiel, you are being called. Castiel!_

The time in which it takes him to land in heaven is too short to be measured by humans, but for him it seems like hours. He is being called into the presence of God, his _father_ , after lifetime upon lifetime of loyal service he is being granted the honour of an audience. He cannot even begin to fathom _why_ this may be, but for once, he is not going to question the ways of above. 

Castiel pushes open the (metaphorical) gates of heaven and for the first time, lays his eyes upon his Father. 

God sits upon a throne of light, His entire being burning with white-hot power and energy, like the grace of all the angels in heaven put together and multiplied by a billion. He is, in Himself, not much more than light, but at the same time He is all. He is light and darkness, fire and ice, the very centre of heaven and its powers, and then by default, the largest portion of the universe. 

Castiel drops to his knees before his Father. “Lord,” he whispers, unable to say anything else.

“Castiel,” He replies, His voice toneless and flat. “Castiel, my son, rise.”

Castiel stumbles to his feet, his head still bowed respectfully. “Lord,” he says again, this time his voice somewhat stronger, “I cannot begin to express what an honour it is. You have been gone so long and for you to show yourself to me of all angels… I am nothing special Father and yet I have been chosen to see your face. Thank you.”

“Castiel,” God drones. “You _are_ special, and not just because you are my son. You are very special, more special than Zachariah or Raphael, or even Michael. You rescued the righteous man from Hell, but even beyond that. You have been chosen once again, Castiel. I have a mission for you.”

“What is it, Father?” he answers without hesitation. 

“You have been chosen, Castiel, to obliterate the Winchester brothers before they obliterate the planet,” says God and Castiel feels like he’s sinking, surprised and confounded and hopeless. 

* * *

Dean hates witches. 

He _really, really_ hates witches. He hates witches more than he hates freaking Top-40 hip-hop crap, and he hates Top-40 hip-hop crap more than he hated Bela, which is a lot. 

If Dean could choose one supernatural creature to never fight again, it would be witches, because even once you get past the charred baby skeletons and bodily fluids, there is the fact that just when you think you have them, they will pull out some of their hocus-pocus and pin you to the wall. Next time he meets a witch, he might have to give it a lesson on originality because for what has to be the zillionth time ever, he is being pinned against the wall by invisible chains. Freaking brilliant. 

Sam is next to him, groaning and struggling against the bonds while New Jersey Housewife No# 83, Wiccan Model goes on and on about how she would have expected better from the infamous Winchester brothers, and how once she has summoned her demon overlord they will both be toast, and again, _originality_. If it weren’t for the excruciating pain, then Dean thinks he would laugh at how cliché this all is. But as it is, he is struggling to breathe, let alone be a smart-ass. 

He can’t help wonder if this is it. It had started out as a generic witch hunt; local woman wins millions of dollars and seems a bit _too_ lucky, according to neighbours has been acting strangely, after close inspection was found to possess occult objects… the whole shebang. And then they had come and confronted her with no more of a plan than ‘ _you go around the back and I’ll go around the front and we’ll corner and shoot her_.’ But because they are Sam and Dean Winchester, nothing is easy and now they are about to die.

_Again._

The witch gives a gesture that is probably just for dramatics and Dean can feel himself being pushed into the wall, the plaster cracking behind him. No matter how many times he is pushed into the wall it will never stop being immensely painful because _he is being pushed into the fucking wall_ _for fucks sake._ He can hear Sam crying out bedside him and the witch laughing, and holy hell does she have the whole ‘evil laugh’ thing down-pat. Dean shuts his eyes, prepares himself for the worst and is 90% sure he is either about to die or be handed over to a demon when he hears a familiar flutter of wings.

“ _Cas_ ,” he chokes out. 

“Dean.” Castiel sounds panicked, and Dean thinks he freaking well should be because his best friends are about to be killed by a witch. _Did he mention he hates witches_? 

Dean opens his eyes just in time to see Castiel throw her against the bookshelves lining the opposite wall. Her body goes limp and she is quickly covered in an amassment of crappy romance novels and cook-books, and Dean thinks that if anyone deserves to be killed by the combined forces of a nerd-angel and a bookshelf, then it’s most certainly _her_. 

The bonds holding Dean are there one second and gone the next and he falls to the floor, gasping in lungful’s of plaster-filled air. “You alright Sammy?” he chokes. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam says weakly from beside him. “Thanks for saving us Cas, we would’ve been demon food by now if it weren’t for you.” 

Dean pushes himself up into a sitting position, wiping his hand across his dirty forehead and groaning when he feels the beginnings of a bruise near his temple. He doesn’t notice that Castiel is standing there, angel-sword in hand and staring down at them with a vacant look in his eyes until Sam stands up and tentatively moves forward. “Cas? Are you okay?” he asks. 

“I’m fine, Sam,” the angel replies, but Dean can see that there is something wrong. 

“Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean goes to say, but before he can get the words out, an intense wind starts up, blowing loose papers and debris all around the room.  Black smoke flies in through the wall-grate and shoots into the mouth of the apparently not-dead witch.

“She summoned the demon!” Sam shouts over the noise of the wind, and Dean almost applauds him on his masterful deduction.

“Witches, seriously! Can’t they just _die_?” Dean reaches into his pocket for the demon-knife but curses when he realises it’s still where the witch had kicked it when she disarmed him, over near the bookshelves where said witch is currently being possessed. 

Her head snaps up, eyes pitch black, and she cracks her neck, smirking at the Winchesters. “Well, well,” she says before flicking her eyes back to normal, human brown. “Sam and Dean Winchester. I’m almost disappointed at how easy this was.”  

“Yea and I’m hungry and sore, so what’d you say? How about we call it a night and all go our separate ways.”  

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” she clucks, before flicking her wrist and sending him flying. Just their luck. They couldn’t get some D-grade demon with zero telekinetic powers, because that’d be simple, and they’re Winchesters. 

“Cas,” Dean croaks at the angel, who still stands alarmingly still in the centre of the room, “Now would be a good time to start smiting.” 

“I can’t do that,” he says in his low, gravelly voice. “I’m sorry Dean.” 

Dean tries not to dwell on the feeling of betrayal that knots his gut, and instead of questioning Cas (the spineless son of a bitch) he looks over at Sam, wincing at the sharp pain in his arm as the slightest amount of pressure is applied to it. Probably broken. “Sam? Mojo?” 

“I’m trying,” Sam says through gritted teeth, his long arm outstretched and his brow furrowed in concentration. Of course Sam’s powers would take a leave of absence at the same moment their resident angel decides he would rather let them die then smite the demon bearing down on them. But then again, Winchesters. 

The demon can’t pull the same crap on Sam that she pulled on him, but nor can Sam seem to exorcise or kill her, so they are stuck in what looks almost like a stand-off. They both stand with their palms outstretched, facing each other with equally determined expressions, and under any other circumstance it would be almost comical. “Cas,” Sam says. “I can’t hold on much longer. Do something.”

Dean goes to stand up and go do something, _anything_ , to help, but the demon flicks him aside again without so much as a glance. He lands hard on his left arm and screams at the impact. Yeah, definitely broken. 

He thought that Cas had flown off somewhere, abandoning them to the demon (because Dean would not put it past him, the son of a bitch) but then a palm is being laid against the woman’s forehead and with a flash of light she falls to the ground, dead. Sam’s whole body almost seems to collapse in on itself and he leans against the ruined wall for support, his breaths laboured and husky. 

Dean lets himself fall back, cradling his broken arm against his chest. “Jesus, Cas. What the hell?”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says, adjusting his grip on his angel-sword and taking a step forward, his trench-coat fluttering around his ankles. 

Maybe it is the shattered quality of his voice, or the purposeful stride, or the gleaming sword held tight in his hand, but something tells Dean that Cas didn’t zap himself here to help. “Cas,” he says, sitting up and scooting backwards, more on primeval instinct than strategy, because he is quite literally cornered. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says again as he steps forward and pulls Dean up by his lapels, at the same time using his other hand to send Sam sprawling across the room and apparently paralysing him, if the way Sam is grunting is anything to go by. 

“Cas, stop, what’re you doing?”  

“I have my orders, Dean. I’m sorry.”

“But since when have you done what those dicks told you? This is different, Cas. Stop and think for a second.”  

“I saw God. I have to kill you. I am sorry.” 

Dean can almost see his friend (or, ex-friend at least, since friends don’t usually tend to kill each other) fighting a battle within his head. He has been ordered to kill them, by _God_ apparently, but at the same time he doesn’t want to because they’re his friends and he knows it’s wrong. Cas’ blue eyes are clouded and almost grey, and his sword-hand shakes. 

“I’m sorry Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean doesn’t think he has ever heard him this unsure or _scared_ even. He can see him telling himself that his Father comes first, and that His word is law and that everything He says is correct – Dean has been down that road – but then at the same time knowing that these boys are his friends, and that to kill them would be betrayal. But to not kill them would be to betray his Father, and nothing comes before his Father. And Cas’ dad isn’t just some obsessed, dead-beat either, but _God_ , which by default kind of makes Cas the biggest religion nut ever, but still, Dean understands. To let them live is going against everything Cas has been brought up to believe, because for him free-will is nothing but a pipe-dream. Dean can relate, and he could almost understand if Castiel stabbed him through the heart right now. But he doesn’t really want to die and go back to Hell because it was, well, _hell_. 

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean whispers as the sword is shakily brought down. “Cas, stop. We’re your family. We need you.” 

For a moment Dean thinks he is going to do it and that he is going straight back to Hell, but then with a sharp intake of breath Castiel releases his weapon and lets it drop to the floor with a loud clatter. He takes a step backwards, his eyes wide with fear and doubt and confusion, emotions that seem oddly out of place on the usually stoic and emotionless angel. 

“Dean,” he begins, but then disappears in a flash of light, and something tells Dean that that wasn’t voluntary angel-zapping and that somebody upstairs certainly isn’t happy.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t think he has ever felt anything like this. The pain is intense and burning, and for a long moment, he wishes that he would just die. He can feel his grace bubbling away inside him and trying to fight against the force ripping it out, but failing and dying and disappearing. He knows what is happening and he knew that it would happen the moment he dropped that sword, but he had never expected the pain to be this bad. He remembers Anna saying how it had hurt to rip out her grace, but as she was the one in control, it would have been nothing compared to this.

Castiel wants to fall into unconsciousness, but he can’t. That used to be one of the perks of being an angel, but now it seems like an added punishment. He screams and writhes, but whoever it is removing his grace does not stop or even slow down, they continue with the same sharp insistency, grabbing and pulling at his very essence and forcing it out from within him. 

Just when he thinks he is almost graceless (which should not provide as a relief, but the pain is so much that it does), the hand holding it lets go and it snaps back into him with all the force of a moving train, which in itself is agonising beyond belief. White spots dance across Castiel’s closed eyelids and he can still feel his entire body burning white-hot with abused grace. His wings ache more than words can describe and if he did not know better, he would say that his ribs were broken, but as angels do not have ribs, then he doesn’t want to even think about what it is that is causing that pain. 

“Castiel,” says a booming voice, a voice that hours ago Castiel had metaphorically drooled over, a voice that lacks any identifiable characteristics and yet he would know anywhere.

Castiel tries to reply, but all that comes out is a garbled plea, his body betraying his mind in favour of pained delirium. 

“Castiel,” God says. “I am sorry for having to do this to you, but you are aware what you did. You did not only save the lives of the Winchester brothers, but you also disobeyed a direct order; an order from the highest possible authority. I granted you the honour of seeing me, Castiel, and instead you choose the humans. It is correct to love them, but you should also love me, as I know you do. I have learnt things Castiel. Humans are not perfect, and nor were they designed to be, but they are worse than I had ever imagined they could get. Sometimes steps need to be taken to stop them bringing on the end, as much as it pains me to kill my creations. I am your father, your creator, and you will do as I ask or you will become like Lucifer, an abomination.”

Castiel tries to say that he is sorry, and that the Winchesters are good men who do not deserve to die, and that of course he loves his father more than them, but again his body has a different agenda.

“Do not try and protest, son,” God continues. “I know everything that you are going to say, just as I know that you know full well that you have sinned in the most extreme sense of the word. You can no longer be an angel, Castiel, you have made that clear.” Castiel prepares himself again for the searing pain of his grace being removed, but feels nothing. “I am not going to pull out your grace,” his Father explains. “Instead I am going to drain it. You have three months, Castiel, no more, no less. Three months in which your grace will fade, and instead of starting a new life as a human child, you will take your vessel and you will remember exactly who and what you are. Three months in which you will become completely, utterly and undeniably _human_.” 


	3. Chapter Two

Sam is worried about his brother, and even more than usual. Dean has been on-edge and agitated, exploding over the smallest thing (like how Sam had accidentally left a bit of grated carrot on the seat of the Impala.) 

It has been three days since their showdown with the witch and confrontation with Cas, and Dean is not taking it well, whatever _it_ is. It could be the fact that Sam couldn’t gank the demon (thanks to a lack of demon blood, which has since been rectified), or, much more likely, it could be Castiel trying to kill them, deciding at the last minute he wasn’t and then being zapped back to God knows where. Considering Cas’ statement regarding the return of his Father, then Sam supposes that God _is_ probably one of the only ones who knows where Cas is. 

Sam just wishes Dean would talk to him, because it’s getting ridiculous. Sam gets it, he wants to know what’s up with Cas just as much as his brother does, but he is not on the verge of meltdown. Sam is angry about what Cas was going to do, but he also knows that it was _not_ the angel’s fault. Sam has faith, and if he had been in Castiel’s shoes then hell, he would have more than considered it as well, because it’s not every day that God speaks with you face to face. The important thing is that they’re alive now, which means that he did make the right decision in the end. 

But Sam can’t help wondering whether it was the right decision. If _God_ ordered for them to be killed then he must have had a good reason, because it’s God, and he wouldn’t kill lightly. It could be the demon blood, but Sam is doing what he’s doing so that he can kill Lilith and stop the apocalypse, and surely God is against the end of the world? If there were another way to do this, then Sam would take it, but unfortunately there isn’t, so he will keep drinking blood and practicing until he is strong enough and then he will save the world and stop Lucifer and do all the things that Dean is meant to but can’t. 

Sam hardly looks up from his laptop as Dean storms into the motel room, fuming about lines at the grocery store or his arm-cast itching or something of the like; Sam tuned out of Dean’s unnecessary bitching two days ago. He doesn’t know how much longer they can do this though, because Dean is clearly losing it, and in him losing it, Sam is also spiralling into a pit of ‘Winchester-insanity’ as he remembers Dean calling it once, when Dad had thrown a week-long tantrum similar to the one Dean is throwing now. 

They just really need to find out what happened to Cas because Sam doesn’t think there is anything he can do to help Dean right now, because every time he tries to talk he is just given the classic ‘no chic-flick moments’ deflector. 

While Dean is battling with the motel-microwave, Sam grabs his coat, texts Ruby and walks out the door, knowing that Dean, being in the mood he’s in, won’t even realise he’s gone for at least half an hour. 

***

“Sam, what’s wrong?” Ruby asks an hour later; her head nestled against Sam’s bare chest. “You’re somewhere else today.” 

Sam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m just worried about Dean. And Castiel, but mostly Dean.”

“Did they break up or something?” Ruby asks earnestly. 

“What? No. No, they’re not like that,” Sam gives Ruby a look that just makes her roll her eyes. “No, the other day when we were hunting a witch Cas dropped in and saved our asses – this was when I was out of blood otherwise I would have been able to deal with the demon she summoned – but then tried to kill us—”

“He is an angel.” 

“Yeah, I know, and I trust him. The only reason he did what he did was because _God_ told him to.”

“Sam, how many times have you heard that one? Everything angels do they do because ‘God' told them.” Ruby says, putting air quotes around the word God.

“You didn’t see the look on his face, Ruby. And he said he’d _seen_ God. What if God _is_ actually back? Why would he want Dean and me dead?”

“Look, Sam, angels lie.” 

“Says the demon in the room.”

Ruby rolls her eyes again. “I thought we had gotten past the racism. Anyway, that’s not the point. Dean will either get over Castiel soon, or he’ll come back and it’ll be ok. Just try and stop worrying about them, Sam, and start concentrating on _you_ ,” she rolls over until she is straddling Sam’s hips. “Forget about them for a while.”

Sam pulls her in for a heated kiss and tries to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut. Dean is a grown man; he can deal with his tantrum himself. As for Castiel… well, Castiel _is_ an angel after all, so what’s the worst that could happen? 

* * *

Castiel’s entire body hurts. He feels bruised all over, and although there are no visible marks on his vessel’s skin, he supposes he is. His grace thrums within him, still broken and in pain, throbbing against his insides and rendering them red-raw. 

He lies on a park bench in South Detroit, planning to stay there until his grace is at least somewhat recovered. Passers-by give him looks that he cannot interpret, but if he could find the energy and motivation to read their minds – as he had done yesterday, for only a brief moment – he would discover that they feel a mix of pity and disgust toward him; that they think he is intoxicated and homeless, and Castiel supposes that in a way, he is. He has been thrown out of Heaven, and although his connection remains in-tact, to return would be suicide. He can still hear his brothers and sisters, his connection to ‘angel radio,’ as Dean Winchester calls it, still very much there, and it is awful. 

He is alone, and it is all his fault. He had chosen the Winchesters over his father, and now he is going to pay the price and become human; mortal and virtually powerless. He gives his vessel sixty-five years at the very most, which by human standards is almost a lifetime, but for him it is a fraction of a fraction of the years he has already lived, let alone the ones that he will now never have. He will have to learn to live on Earth, acquire a profession and a house and a car, learn to use money and toasters and how to file a tax return, do all the things that he has seen hundreds upon thousands of humans do each day. Or, alternatively, he could become a hunter, like Sam and Dean. 

He honestly does not know where to start. He _could_ go and find the Winchesters (he is able to easily locate them and could be there in less than five seconds) but he highly doubts that they want to see him. No, he will not go and find the Winchesters because he does not want to burden them with this. They have enough on their shoulders already – and by enough he means the fate of the entire world – without the added weight of a broken, falling angel. He knows that they would take him in, but only because they feel obliged to, not because they particularly want him around. 

Castiel can’t help wondering if he did the right thing. He should have obeyed his Father’s will, even though it went against His own teaching, His own morals. God had been correct when He had said that He had changed. A thousand, maybe even a _hundred_ years ago, He would not have ordered an angel to kill humans for Him, humans that He knew the angel was attached to nonetheless. _Love them more than you love me_ , He had said at the very beginning, when man was still not much more than an idea. Lucifer had not been able to do this, and he had payed the price. Castiel finds it somewhat ironic (and the mere fact that irony is now a thing he understands and appreciates is a sign of how the humans have changed him) that he is being cast out for the very opposite reason. He _had_ loved them more than he loved his Father, and now he is being reprimanded. 

The fact that God has changed is unquestionable. When, in the past, had He cared enough about individual, human brothers to have them smote for something they _may_ do? When had He contradicted his upmost commandments, commandments that He Himself wrote? When had He _tortured_ and _beaten_ one of His angels to the point that three days later they were still in intense pain? And most of all, when had He started punishing for loyalty to humans?

Maybe God isn’t God anymore. The thought almost makes Castiel feel sick (which is saying something, because he is still almost 100% angel), but it could very well be true. Maybe years of being wherever He has been have warped His mind and soul into something else. His power is still unbridled, but power does not necessarily equal the right to be called God. It is the morals and actions that count, showing mercy, giving second chances, showing _love_. There had been no love in the being that Castiel had met. He had been beautiful and magnificent, His power and radiance breathtaking and His mind whole, but there had been no devotion there. 

Castiel wishes that he could understand. He wishes that he could know what happened to his Father while He was gone, but he knows he never will. No one probably ever will. God, even at his best, had never been one to share much and so now, with Him being as broken and warped as He is, it is virtually impossible. The only reassurance that Castiel feels comes from the fact that God does not seem to want the apocalypse to happen. If he is to become human, he would rather there be an earth to live on.

Castiel realises that what he is doing probably constitutes as sulking, but he also realises that for humans, this is perfectly acceptable, so he may as well practice. He is not going to deny the fact that he feels sorry for himself, because he does. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. He could quite easily lie on this bench for the next month at least without needing to move, and he feels somewhat compelled to do so. But however long he puts it off he will need to devise a plan, because at some point he will need to eat and sleep and revive his bladdery functions, but momentarily, he is sulking, and he plans to do as much until movement is absolutely necessary. 

“Sir,” a heavily accented male voice says from roughly a foot behind him, “You can’t sleep here.” 

“I am not sleeping,” Castiel replies.

“Well either way, you can’t lay here. I’ll need to ask you to move on.” 

“Why?”

The man – whom Castiel believes to be some form of law enforcement officer – sighs exasperatedly. “Because this is a public area. Now sir, I’ll ask you one more time. Could you please move on?”

Castiel sits up and stares at the man, allowing their consciousness’s to meld, only for a second, but long enough to read that the man’s name is Gregory Isaac Miller, aged 36, raised by single mother Emma Miller after his father died of a drug overdose in a small town in eastern Louisiana, he is unmarried with a history of failed relationships, is allergic to dogs, is bored of his career and enjoys green curry. “You should return to college,” Castiel remarks, because Gregory Isaac Miller is clearly an intelligent man, but he is being wasted doing grunt work for the local police force. 

“Excuse me?’ Gregory Isaac Miller sounds offended, and Castiel wonders why, because he was only being earnest. 

“You have potential. I understand that no one in your family has ever graduated, and that you are haunted by your childhood – especially memories of your father – but this should not keep you from living your life.” Castiel figures that he may as well help as many people as he can while he still has the ability. 

“I – look, if you don’t get out of here now I will have to take you back to the station.”

“The police station?” Castiel asks.

“Uh, yeah,” says Gregory Isaac Miller, looking somewhat affronted.

Castiel figures that if he is being forced to vacate his bench, then the best place to go is a place of authority, because once they realise that they have an angel in their midst, they will assist him in taking the next step, whatever that may be. “Accompanying you would play to my advantage,” he says. 

“Yeah, okay,” Gregory Isaac Miller has slowed down the speed with which he is talking greatly. “What’d you say we just slip into the car and go back to the station? Nice and easy now.”

“I do not plan to put up a fight, you need not be concerned.” Castiel stands up and adjusts the sleeves of his trench-coat, before meeting Gregory Isaac Miller’s eyes.

“Okay. What’d you say your name was again, sir?” Gregory Isaac Miller says, shuffling uncomfortably and not meeting the angel’s eyes for more than a few seconds. 

“I don’t believe I did. I am Castiel.”

“My name’s Officer Miller, and the car’s just this way, Castiel, if you want to follow me, nice ‘n calm.”

Castiel follows closely behind Gregory Isaac Miller as he leads him across the street to a parked patrol car. He opens the door and, when Castiel remains still, gestures for him to hop into the back-seat. 

“I don’t like travelling by car. It’s too slow.”

“Yeah, well… okay,” the officer seems unsure how to answer. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t fly, so ‘fraid we’re driving. It’s only five minutes up the road.”

“I can fly us there if you would like,” Castiel offers. “I predict that I will still have use of my wings for between one and two months.”

“Just get in the car, buddy,” Gregory Isaac Miller says, gently guiding the angel toward the patrol car.

“As you wish.”

As they drive toward the station, Castiel hears Gregory Isaac Miller talking softly into a radio. “Officer Miller here, I’m bringing someone in. White male, early to mid-thirties, only name given is ‘Castiel,’ was found sleeping on a park bench and then asked to be brought in when threatened with arrest. Possibly under the influence of alcohol or drugs, seemingly unarmed and as far as I can tell not-dangerous. Probable metal-illness.”   

“I am an Angel of the Lord,” Castiel says, leaning forward so that Gregory Isaac Miller is sure to hear him.

“Uh, change that to confirmed religious-psychosis,” he adds into the radio.

Castiel tilts his head and contemplates Gregory Isaac Miller. “You have no faith,” he says at last. Gregory Isaac Miller is apparently wise. Faith is no longer such a good thing.  

***

Castiel sits in a square, concrete room in the Corktown Police Station, South Detroit, Michigan. A single blub hangs from the ceiling, its dim yellow light casting sharp and menacing shadows. Castiel sits at a metal table, and apart from a door on the opposite wall and a security camera in the corner, the room is completely bare. 

Castiel believes that this is an intimidation tactic. He also believes that it would work to some extent, were he not an Angel of the Lord. The door is unlocked – which Castiel supposes is to show him that he is not a prisoner – but he does not plan to leave this room. He meant it when he said accompanying Gregory Isaac Miller to the police station would play to his advantage. Castiel is unsure what will happen next. He is fairly unfamiliar with modern, human, American law enforcement agencies. He knows that the Winchesters regularly impersonate people of authority, and that they seem to get arrested quite a lot, but beyond that, he is virtually clueless. 

The door opens and a young, dark-haired woman walks in. She wears the black and white uniform typical of police in this area, an insignia sewn over her chest and an empty fire-arm holster on her belt. “Hi, I’m Sargent Hannah Gabriel,” she says with a warm smile, which Castiel believes is legitimate if the bright glow of her soul is anything to go by. Sargent Hannah Gabriel is a verifiably good person.

“I had a brother named Gabriel,” Castiel says as she sits down opposite him.

“Had? What happened to him, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“He left and assumed a false identity. I recall him calling it ‘witness protection.’”

“Oh. Ok,” the Sargent falters. “So, Castiel… can you tell me _why_ you asked to be brought in?”

Castiel contemplates her for a moment, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes, a gesture he picked up from humans over the centuries and has now added to his somewhat limited repertoire of emotive facial expressions. “I need your help,” he says finally.

“And why is that, Castiel?” she questions, her tone soft and compassionate.

“I was… _kicked out_ of my home,” he replies, adopting slang that he has heard Dean, Sam and an amassment of other humans use a number of times. 

“By your partner?” 

“By my Father,” he corrects.

“So you still lived with your parents?” 

“My Father only just returned. He has been gone for a long time. Before that there were only my brothers and sisters.” 

“So why did your father kick you out if he just came back?” she sounds genuinely concerned.

“I disobeyed Him. He asked me to do something… something that I could not bring myself to do, and so now I am being punished.” Castiel can no longer meet her eyes.

“What did he tell you to do?” she leans forward, resting her chin on her steepled hands. “Because you do know, Castiel, that if he assaulted or abused you in any way there are steps that can be taken.”

“It was not me that would have been harmed.” His gaze flickers upwards once more. “There were two boys – brothers – and I had grown close to them. They were the closest I had ever had to family, without actually being my family and my Father told me to do something, and it would have hurt them. I questioned His judgement, and even though He never used to be this way, I should have trusted him. And then He cast me out and I can never return home.”

“That’s awful,” Sargent Gabriel says. “I’m sorry, Castiel, but that is really awful. He can’t just show up and dictate your life like that! When Miller brought you in he said you seemed delusional with mild-psychosis’, but I just think you’re sad. And lonely! You have to live your own life. You can’t let your dad tell you what to do, and I know this whole thing is horrible, but maybe in the long run it’ll be for the better. You can start having some independence and choice.”

Castiel furrows his brow. “I do not know how to have independence and choice. Free will is a prerogative.” 

“No, it’s not! Free will is the most important part of what it means to be a person! We have so many choices, what to wear, what to study at college, what insurance firm to join… if we let other people decide all this for us then we wouldn’t be who we are. My parents? They wanted me to become a veterinarian. But I said screw that, I’m going to join the police, and without free will, I would be playing with kittens right now instead of talking to a messed-up, middle-aged man in a trench-coat in a cold interrogation room. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I understand,” Castiel says, and he does, but at the same time the advice is all _wrong_. Free will is an illusion, for humans even more so than angels. Angels are the merchants of fate; human lives theirs for the moulding. For an angel to make decisions is wrong and unnatural. They are not designed to have choice, but nor, he realises, are humans designed to disobey God and destiny and fate, and change the entire story from beginning to end. Human lives are unpredictable and messy, but as Castiel is coming to understand, this mess is simply an aftereffect of choice. He cannot name how many humans have veered from the path meant for them over the last hundred years, but it is enough that Earth is so much different to how the angels had planned. There was the bad: the World Wars, Chernobyl, the Twin Towers, nuclear weaponry, but with it came the good. There was the granting of rights to woman and people of colour, solar technology, environmental awareness, aeroplanes, the internet; all major advancements that were never supposed to happen. 

Yes, free will is an illusion, but this illusion can be broken. There will always be angels and _God_ , deciding the fate of the world, but humans are the ones shaping it. Maybe Castiel is already more human than he realises, but he knows, if it came down to it, which side he would rather be on. His life will become messy and human, and even harder than it is now, but he will be able to make decisions. He can – as Sargent Gabriel put it – be his own person. He still doesn’t know where he is going to go from here, but he does know that _he_ can be the one to choose. 

“Yes, I understand,” he says to the Sargent. “Thank-you.”

She smiles and stands up, checking her watch as she does. “Look, sorry, I have to go, but I’m really glad I could help. Someone will be in later to collect your personal details; nothing tricky, just name, birthdate, previous address… stuff like that so we can properly identify you. Just remember,” she says as she leaves the room, “to live your own life, Castiel, because you only have one and it’s all yours.” 

By the time the second officer arrives to collect Castiel’s information, he is long gone, but somehow, the words of one police Sargent from South Detroit have managed to leave him feeling clearer-headed than he has in a very long time. The heaviness is by no means gone, but it has been alleviated, even just momentarily. He has free-will, and now he just has to work out how to use it. 


	4. Chapter Three

It has been said more times than one that Dean is not the praying type. This is usually true, except, apparently, when it comes to certain stupid angels who can’t so much as leave a voicemail to let him know that they’re alive.

For one, Dean’s arm itches like hell, and although it’s not the first time ever that he has had a broken limb, it’s fucking annoying and he is practically useless until it heals itself. That is not to mention that Sam has wandered off to fuck knows where ( _with the Impala_ ) and that Castiel was going to kill them and has now vanished off the face of the earth. Literally. 

Dean doesn’t even know how he feels about anything anymore. He is furious at Cas, because the son of a bitch was going to slice his throat, but he is also worried and just wants him to be alive. If Castiel is dead then it’s Dean’s fault. All he needs is another death to add to the ever-growing List of Things That Are Dean’s Fault. There’s his mom, his dad, _the freaking Apocalypse_ , and now maybe Cas, who despite the stick up his ass and love of all things high and holy, is actually an okay guy. 

Dean isn’t sure what could be happening to Cas upstairs. He has no idea what kinds of torture they would use in Heaven, and he is – as much as he wishes he wasn’t – kind of an expert in that area. Dean’s sure that whatever it is though, it’s bad. Angels are violent, sadistic dicks, even at the best of times, and considering Cas just disobeyed _God_ , this really isn’t the Best of Times. 

His emotions are all over the place. Part of him is saying that he should just let Cas get what’s coming to him, but another, maybe bigger, part of him wants to do everything he can to save the bastard, killing as many angels as he can along the way and playing the never-changing role of the gallant hero, saving the damsel in distress (or in this case, angel) from the monster of the week. If it were Sam or Bobby, then Dean would be doing everything within his power – broken arm or not – to find them, but Cas is something different. He isn’t family, but he is a better friend than Dean has ever had, even with the previously mentioned ass-stick. If it were Sam or Bobby, Dean would ignore the fact that they tried to kill him, burying the hurt and betrayal deep inside him until he found them and couldn’t take it anymore, and then exploding at said person because he can never keep his fucking mouth shut. 

Cas though… Cas is just _Cas_. He has saved their lives more than once – including three days ago, just before the whole sword/throat incident – and as much as Dean wants to (because, ahem, _sword/throat incident_ ) he can’t ignore that. Cas could have just let the witch and her demon joy-rider kill them, but instead he saved their lives. It could have just been so that he could do the job himself, but more likely, it was because he didn’t want to watch them die. Dean really doesn’t know a lot about his friend slash attacker, but he does know that he and Sam are just about the closest he has ever had to friends. 

He sure doesn’t like it, but Dean actually kind of cares about the son of a bitch.

And so, he has been praying; to Cas, to God (the dick), even to fucking Anna, but none of them are responding. The second two don’t surprise him so much, but Cas always comes when he calls, so something must be seriously wrong for him not to answer. Either he is locked away in Heaven, out of angel mojo, seriously injured or _dead_. Dean really, really hopes it isn’t the last one. 

Sam is worried as well, but he has never had the same friendship (Dean is still wavering around whether _friend_ is an appropriate word after what happened) with Castiel that Dean has with him. He guesses that being pulled out of Hell kind of creates a bond for both people involved, because a) person one was in _Hell_ and b) person two “gripped person one tight and raised them from perdition,” which doesn’t exactly sound like a walk in the park. Sam won’t ever get it like Dean does, because as smart and empathetic he is, he just hasn’t lived it firsthand. He doesn’t get what it’s like to be ripped apart by a hell-hound, go to Hell, be tortured, major in torture, get raised from Hell with no idea what the fuck happened, meet an angel with bed-hair and a trench-coat, have that angel like you more than his brothers (who to be fair are douches) and then be betrayed and then not-betrayed by that angel. Fuck, Dean doesn’t even get it and he’s the one all of it happened to. He doesn’t know what _it_ is exactly, but it’s complicated as hell and ten times more confusing. 

Sam is probably off screwing Ruby (an image Dean really doesn’t need), and so he’s here alone, in a cheap motel room in a neat suburban Ohio town, with no Impala, no case, no pie, no left hand and a whole lot of zilch in the information department. 

_Cas_ , he thinks as loudly as he can, for what has to be the fiftieth time in the past 72 hours, _where are you? We need you to be okay, okay? If you can hear me, get your feathery ass down here, or so help me, when I find you I will make you wish you had killed me. Just… let me know you’re alive, Cas, because I’m going crazy here. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry, but just be alive._ Dean opens his eyes and once again takes in the sight of their empty motel room. Still no Impala, case, pie or left hand, and more importantly, still no Cas. 

***

“HOLY FUCK!” Dean shouts, spilling his scoldingly hot coffee down in front in the process. “CAS?”

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says, avoiding his eyes from where he stands in the middle of the room. 

“Yeah, _hey_ Cas. Now if you don’t freaking mind could you please heal me before my skin stars bubbling off?” he hisses through clenched teeth, because _coffee fucking hurts_. 

“Apologies,” he replies, zapping himself forward and laying a hand to Dean’s forehead, the pain, skin-bubbling and arm-cast (hey!) all disappearing with a burst of warmth. 

“Apologies? Yeah, apologies!” he almost shouts, standing up and fixing Castiel with a menacing glare. “Where the fuck have you been, Cas? I _prayed_ to you. I prayed _for_ you!”  

“I have been… incapacitated.”

“Incapacitated.”

“Yes Dean,” Castiel blinks like a fucking owl, and Dean has the urge to punch him. 

“And you couldn’t so much as ring and let me know you were alive? Holy shit Cas, I thought you were dead. You just disappeared and then… just _fuck_ ,” his voice cracks.

“I don’t have your phone number,” Cas furrows his eyebrows. “I had no way of contacting you. And besides, I have been lying on various park benches for the last three days trying to find the strength to _move_ let alone locate you and Sam, so I am sorry Dean, that I did not contact you.”

Dean sobers instantly. “What did they do to you, Cas?” his eyes flick over the angel’s body. Same dirty trench-coat, same backwards tie, same messy hair and piercing blue eyes; he looks exactly the same. On the outside at least. 

Castiel averts his eyes, seeming to suddenly find the mildew on the wall extremely interesting. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he says. 

“What’s that mean? ‘Nothing you can’t handle’?” 

“It’s fine, Dean. Leave it alone,” Cas growls, and Dean decides that yeah, he will leave it alone (for now), because an angry Castiel is fucking scary, and Dean doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. The angel’s gaze is stony, and Dean swears he can just about _smell_ the power coursing off of him.

“Yeah, ok, fine,” Dean says, pouring himself a shot of whiskey and downing it in one gulp, enjoying the sharp, acidic burn as it travels down his throat. “So what happened Cas?”

“God has returned,” he replies, and unless Dean is thoroughly mistaken, that tone is full of bitterness. So Castiel isn’t happy about his dad coming back. Noted. 

“Yeah,” Dean grabs a beer from the fridge, ignoring the judgemental glare the angel shoots him. “I got that bit. What happened after that though? You _saw_ Him?”

Castiel nods once. “Yes.”

“And?” Dean pushes. 

“And He has changed. I was to kill you and Sam before you ended the world –”

“Wait what?” Dean interrupts. “Before _we_ ended the world? We’re trying to _stop_ the Apocalypse.” 

“Apparently He thought otherwise. I couldn’t kill you and so I was taken back to Heaven and after a discussion He… reconsidered.”

“You said you haven’t been able to move for three days. Did you get hit by a bus on the way down here or did God’s discussion include a bit of angel-torture?”

“His techniques were somewhat questionable,” Castiel replies, his voice low, gravelly and earnest. “But as I said, it’s nothing that I can’t handle.” 

Yeah, ‘questionable’ Dean’s ass. Their Father in Heaven or whatever the fuck He is supposed to be tortured Cas – his own _son_ – because he didn’t stab his friends in the back. Or front. Or anywhere for that matter. But the point stands. God is kind of a jerk. Dean knows that this is blasphemy, but it’s true, so if he goes to Hell when he dies (again) then so be it. He is going to call God every rude name he can think of in the privacy of his own head (and maybe out loud a few times) because _really_. “So basically God tortured you for not being a complete dick and then let you go?” he summarises. 

“Yes,” Cas says flatly.  

“No offense dude, but your dad is kind of an ass.”

“That’s God you’re talking about, Dean.”

“I know, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Isn’t God supposed to be this kind and loving being, not a… an _ass_.”  

Cas sighs and lifts his eyes up to the ceiling, as if he can _see_ God and Heaven from the middle of Fuck Knows What Low-Fee Motel, Fuck Knows Where, Ohio. “He’s not the same as He used to be.  That was all true of him, once, but something,” Castiel falters, “something happened to Him, and now He’s just different. I didn’t notice at first. I was too overwhelmed by Him, but then after He asked me to… to kill you and Sam, I began to realise.

 “Dean,” he says, staring into his eyes intensely, “I’m not even sure if He is God anymore.” 

Dean chews on the inside of his cheek. “Well what is He then?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t know. But either way, He is darker than He once was; and broken. Faith no longer holds the strength it used to.”

“He’s not suddenly gonna become the Devil or anything is He?” because holy shit, the last thing they need is rogue-God. Not _a_ rogue-god, they’ve dealt with plenty of them before, but _the_ God; the big man upstairs himself, turned evil. How would they even begin to fight Him? Dean hopes that it never comes to that, because Lilith is hard enough to deal with and she’s only a demon (the first demon, but still). 

“I don’t think so,” Castiel says, and Dean relaxes slightly. Good. No evil-God is good. 

“So what are you gonna do?” Dean asks. “I’m guessing you can’t go back to Heaven just yet.”

Cas’ eyes fall to the floor. “I don’t know.”

“If you want to,” Dean shrugs. “You can always stay with us. I mean, you can zap off whenever you want, but if God’s gunning for us, then having an angel around could only be a good thing, right? Just hang out here for a while.” 

Castiel looks unsure, but after a moment he meets Dean’s eyes. “I’ll stay,” he says.  

* * *

It’s another two days before Sam realises that something is off. 

It is not just the fact that Cas is 100% okay after disobeying God, or that God acted the way he did, or even that Cas has been living with them. It is more that he seems so _okay_ about it all. Usually, the angel could not be with them for more than two hours without disappearing, but here it’s been two _days_ and he seems like he isn’t going anywhere.

Sam knows something is going on, and he _will_ find out what.

* * *

“So what’s going on with Cas?” Sam asks, while said angel is out walking, supposedly needing to ‘gather his thoughts’ or something stupid. Cas would be the ‘take a walk’ type. Figures.  

“What?” Dean replies, looking up from his gun, which, when he is finished, will be so clean and will shoot so smoothly that whatever they are up against won’t have time to blink before it’s dead. Heh, serves whatever it will be right for doing whatever it will do to make it need to be shot. Personally, Dean hopes the next thing he shoots is a witch, because he feels like there is a sort of vendetta between him and every Satan-worshipping, demon-summoning, spell-casting son of a bitch out there. They’re all the same. Freaking witches.  

“He’s been with us for nearly two days straight now. You don’t find that… _odd_?”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno. I guess he’s a fugitive now, so maybe he just wants the company. The angels do seem pretty tight-knit, even if most of them are A-grade dick-bags.”

“Yeah, I guess. But doesn’t it seem like he’s hiding something to you? Yesterday I asked him what was going on and he just got all prickly and angry and wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Were you being a bitch about it?”

“ _Dean_!” Sam shoots him a Level-4 bitch face. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I! No offense Sammy, but I don’t think Cas likes you very much. Plus, you can be pretty damn pushy sometimes, and it gets irritating.” 

Sam increases his bitch-face to a Level-7. “Well since he likes you better –”

“Hey,‘s not my fault I’m likeable.”

“– maybe _you_ should ask him,” Sam finishes, ignoring Dean. 

“If there’s anything wrong then Cas will tell us. I don’t want to push him because then he will just fly off.”

“Dean, please.” Freaking Sam with his freaking puppy-dog eyes. 

“Fine,” Dean says after a moment, placing his now very-clean hopefully-witch-killing gun down on the bed. “But if he flutters off to freaking Siberia or something and God kills us while he’s gone, then it’s not my fault.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, because he’s annoyingly polite like that. Dean just gives him a look and starts to clean hopefully-witch-killing gun number two. 

* * *

Castiel isn’t sure what he’s doing anymore. He didn’t mean to stay with the Winchester’s, but he did, and now he doesn’t think he will be able to bring himself to leave. He had not wanted to burden them with this, but when Dean had asked him to stay, something inside him had snapped, and suddenly he couldn’t care about anything else except staying here with Sam and Dean. 

He should leave, because Dean was right when he said that God was ‘gunning for them’ – Castiel as well – and while he is with the Winchesters, he’s in danger. But this is exactly why he can’t go. He will not be able to protect them forever, but while he can, he will. They are the reason that he’s in this position in the first place, and he’s not going to let this all be for nothing. 

It’s been two days and two different motels, and Castiel can see Sam beginning to wonder why he’s still here, growing increasingly more determined to ‘get to the bottom of it.’ He plans to keep his _condition_ secret for as long as possible, because he knows that once the Winchesters find out, they will do everything they can to try and find a way around it. This though is not something that can be fixed with a demon deal or any amount of spell-work, voodoo or consumption of demon blood. This is final. Maybe, if it were simply one of the angels that had given the sentence, then with great difficulty it could be avoided, but this is _God_ they are talking about here. _The_ God, not some angel or demon or pagan deity. In three months’ time Castiel will be human, and there’s nothing he or the Winchesters can do about it.  

He doesn’t want Sam and Dean going and doing anything reckless or dangerous to try and get his grace back, it would be futile. So no, as far as Castiel can help it, Sam will not ‘get to the bottom of it.’ At the moment, he is still more than 95% angel and it will be a long time before he is human enough that it will be evident. Until then, he will continue as normal and protect the Winchesters from everything that tries to kill, eat, maim or generally harm them, all the while trying to stop the Apocalypse and keeping Sam Winchester from turning into a demon. 

Castiel can’t help but wonder what will happen when they _don’t_ have an angel on their side. He can just hope that the Winchester’s will avoid ending the world – preferably staying alive in the process – because Castiel has grown to care about this planet and these people, especially a certain pair of brothers with over-inflated senses of duty. 

***

Castiel walks back into the motel room at 5:03 that evening, exactly three hours after he left. 

“Hey Cas,” Dean says, his voice oddly high-pitched and possessing a tone that Castiel can’t identify. “How are you?”

Castiel contemplates him for a moment. “I’m fine, Dean. Where’s Sam?”

“That’s good! Sam’s just taking a shower!” he answers, although Castiel cannot hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. Dean’s happiness also seems over-exaggerated, but Castiel doesn’t understand why, and so he asks.

“I, uh – what? I’m not being over-exaggerated,” Dean snorts, smiling briefly. Castiel narrows his eyes and stares at Dean. The hunter shifts uncomfortably, before sighing and dropping into a cheap, balsa-wood dining chair. “Fine, I’m not gonna beat around the bush here, Cas.” he says, his voice normal. “Is there something going on that you’re not telling us, ‘cause it’s just that you’ve never really been the ‘stay at home’ type, and suddenly you’re with us twenty-four-seven.”

“I am just trying to protect you and Sam,” he replies. He won’t lie to Dean’s face, but nor is he going to tell him the entire truth. Again, he knows how Dean will react, and he doesn’t want that. 

“Yeah, I get that Cas, but Sam thinks you seem a bit too touchy, and if I’m being honest, I kind of think so too. If there _is_ something else going on you need to tell us, otherwise we can’t help.”

And that, Castiel thinks, is exactly why he isn’t going to tell them the true depth of his situation. _You can’t help me_ , he wants to say to Dean. _I need you to stop trying to help, because you’ll just get hurt. There is nothing that can be done_. But he doesn’t; because he knows Dean, and that will either just make Dean angry, more determined to help or a mixture of both. Something in him wants to tell his friend, but he knows he _can’t_. He can’t until it is too late for them to do anything. He wishes that there was just some magic spell that could make him 100% angel again, but there’s not, and there never will be. The Winchesters – being the altruists they are – will not stop until they have either fixed Castiel, are both dead from trying or are _certain_ that there is nothing that can be done because it is far too late. So it is the third option that Castiel chooses, and he will stick to this. 

“I’m fine, Dean,” he lies. “If something were _going on_ as you put it, then you would be the first to know.”

“Oh, okay,” Dean visibly relaxes, the tension draining from his shoulders and his jaw losing its firm, nervous clench. “You can uh… you can come out of the bathroom now, Sam,” he calls. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, Cas,” Sam says, giving him a small smile.

Castiel doesn’t understand why Sam was hiding in the bathroom in the first place to listen to their conversation when he could have easily been a part of it, but he is somewhat glad. Sam unnerves him. He wishes it weren’t true, but the demon blood inside the younger Winchester makes it hard for Castiel to even look at him. It isn’t Sam’s fault – he knows that – but it is chilling and repulsive nonetheless. 

But demon-blood or no demon-blood, obsessive desire to save everyone or none, Castiel thinks that if he is doomed to this slow descent into mortality, then there are no two other people he would rather be with. 


	5. Chapter Four

“So I think I found us a job,” Sam says early the next morning.

“Do tell.” Dean throws a breakfast-salad-rabbit-food-sandwich or something equally as bacon-less (because his brother is a health freak) across the room and sits down on the moth-eaten sofa next to Cas, who is just doing that freaky silently-staring-into-your-soul thing that he does. 

“Oroville, California. A man goes on a murdering spree, killing thirteen people – including his wife and son – and now claims to not remember any of it.”

“Could be something,” Dean says around a mouthful of bacon and egg sandwich. He isn’t going to drive all that way to find out that it was just some psycho-human, because a) he’s not actually an FBI agent, b) California sucks at the best of times, and its winter now so there won’t even be any hot chicks in swimsuits (but then again, it’s California, so maybe) and c) _humans, man_. 

“But here’s the kicker,” Sam says, as if sensing his thoughts. “The local police-force refuses to detain him, the sheriff having being quoted saying that _it was all part of the plan_. The area is chock-full of demonic omens as well; lightning storms, temperature fluctuations,” Sam raises his eyebrows and shrugs, “You name it.” Great, that is always a good sign. Dean loves creepy-police-officers and demonic omens. They’re his second favourite thing in the world (after witches).  

“Well then,” Dean sighs, wiping the last of the breakfast grease onto his jeans. “Looks like we’re going to California.” 

***

“Dean,” Castiel says from the back-seat of the Impala. 

“Everything okay back there?” Dean asks, turning the music down enough that he can hear Cas, because as the age-old Winchester commandment states, _thou shalt play AC/DC as loudly as possible_ _when thou art driving because AC/DC is freaking brilliant_. 

“I am not sure that we should be pursuing this case.”

“Why?” Of course Cas would wait until they had driven three quarters of the way before adding his opinion. Freaking angels. 

“I believe that there are demons,” he replies, and Sam lets out a snort from the passenger seat. It takes all Dean has not to pull over _just_ so he can give Cas a look. He reiterates, _freaking angels_.

Dean blinks at Cas in the rear-view mirror. “Are you kidding me?”

“Dean, I am serious.” 

“Of course there are freaking demons, Cas! That’s why we’re going there in the first place.” 

“I know that, Dean.”

“Then _why_ exactly should we not be going?” Dean lifts his eyebrows as gives Cas the best ‘give me a proper reason now or I will be laughing at you for the rest of the car-ride for being an idiot’ look that he can while driving. 

“Because there are _demons_.”

Okay, Dean is losing it. “Cas…”

“I’m not a child, Dean,” Cas’ voice drops a pitch (which shouldn’t even be possible, but maybe the normal rules of human-voice-pitch don’t apply to Angels of the Lord). “Listen to me before you interrupt. I know what I’m talking about. There are _demons_. Hundreds of demons. That man was only the beginning. They are going to possess members of the community one by one, killing thirteen people each time and then leaving the host-body and possessing the corpses. They will continue this process until the whole town is overcome.”

“Okay, but as far as I know there haven’t been any reports of the murder victims suddenly coming home for Sunday dinner. Sam?”

Sam shakes his head. “I haven’t read anything about the so-called ‘walking dead,’ but I guess the demons could be blocking it being publicised or something?”

Castiel turns his eyes East, which if Dean is right, it the exact direction of Oroville. “No,” he says. “The bodies currently remain untouched. They are waiting for the full moon on Thursday, by which time their process will be complete.”

“That’s only three days away,” Sam says, sounding slightly panicked. Dean is maybe just a little (okay, more than a little) worried as well, because the odds of them being able to stop it by then are practically nothing. 

“The full moon serves as a… _conductor_ for the demons’ ritual, or séance if you will.”

“Wait, since when do demons need to – or _want to_ – perform séances? If they want to talk to a ghost can’t they just bamf it out of the Pit, or Heaven, or wherever it is?” Dean tightens his grip on the Impala’s steering wheel, feeling his knuckles begin to turn white from the force of his grip. Man, his life is weird. Demons, ghosts, séances, demon-séances… it’s kind of disconcerting that these are all completely normal, day-to-day occurrences. Well maybe not the last one, but stranger things have happened.  

“Usually, no they wouldn’t need to. Under normal circumstances, demons _would_ simply ‘bamf’ the spirits from their respective resting places.” 

“So why aren’t they?” Sam asks. 

“It is an old spell, dating back to the late 1300’s in Germany,” Cas says, sounding like a history textbook specialising in centuries old, German, demon spells. Brilliant, Dean loves centuries old, German, demon spells even more than creepy-police-officers, demon omens and maybe even witches. “It’s powerful black magic, not usually the way demons work I know, but designed for their species nonetheless. It is literally impossible for any other creature – human or otherwise – to pull off. _And as the moon is at its fullest_ ,” Cas quotes, and Dean can just about _feel_ the italics and fancy cursive, “ _a town with only numbers of Satan shall be offered up in tribute, each soul replaced with one of his children. In their place shall walk the spirits of all who have passed into the light or into the darkness, and chaos shall follow, death close in its wake._ ” He pauses and meets Dean’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “ _And hence a seal shall be broken_.” 

Dean swallows the lump in his throat. “Oroville is a seal?”

“Yes,” Cas sighs, dropping his gaze. “I am afraid so.”

“But what does that mean?” Sam asks. “ _A town with only numbers of Satan_.”

“I believe it refers to the population of the town. Oroville has a population of exactly thirteen-thousand-six-hundred-and-sixty-six people.”

“Right, and thirteen and six-six-six are both satanic numbers,” Sam nods. “But why are they going to ‘offer themselves up in tribute?’ I get that the ‘spirits of all those who have passed into the light or darkness’ would mean everyone from Heaven or Hell, but what’s in it for the demons.”

“I am not sure that anything is in it for the demons except unrelenting chaos and violence, and of course them being one step closer to freeing the Devil.”

“So they’re gonna bring back every single dead person _ever_?” Dean clarifies. “Like, _ever, ever_? Holy shit.”

“There is nothing holy about this, Dean.”

And cue ‘are you freaking serious, Cas?’ look on Dean’s behalf. “It’s a figure of speech. But either-way, every ghost from the beginning of well… _ever_ can’t be a good thing. There aren’t enough hunters in the world – fuck there probably aren’t even enough people – to kill that many vengeful spirits.” 

“But how will the demons possess all those people in three days’ time?” Sam furrows his Neanderthal-esque brow. “Because so far it’s only been the one person and the thirteen murders.”

“I can only assume that they will increase their pace rapidly. I don’t know, Sam.”

They all fall silent, before Dean breaks it with a quiet. “Well, shit.” 

Demons by themselves: no big deal. Ghosts by themselves: piece of cake. Séance of demonic intention: they’ve seen worse. Demons planning an all-out annihilation of a town to summon billions upon billions of ghosts: holy fuck they’re screwed. 

“Cas, what do we do?” says Sam.

“We stop it,” Dean replies in Cas’ place, his voice low and gruff and not displaying any of the _fuck what do we do_ that he is feeling. He has no freaking idea how they’re supposed to kill nearly fourteen-thousand-demons ( _in three days_ ), even with an angel, a psychic demon-buster and Ruby’s knife at their disposal, but he is Dean fucking Winchester and ‘impossible’ is not an option. As always, they are either going to save the world or die trying.  

***

“ _Welcome to the Hotel California_ ,” Dean sings as they step into an abandoned, run-down, freaking pathetic excuse for a house just outside of Oroville. 

“We aren’t in a hotel,” Cas squints at the mould-stains on the roof before turning his gaze toward Dean, doing that owlish-head-tilt that makes him look like a stubbly, man-ish toddler. 

“Dude, it’s a song,” Dean says, throwing his duffel down onto the stained mattress (he really hopes those stains aren’t what he thinks they are) and coughing when a cloud of dust billows up and gets caught in his mouth and nostrils and eyes and hair and freaking everywhere that isn’t covered by clothes. "By The Eagles. Even Metallica covered it once." 

“What’s a Metallica?” Cas asks, still giving Dean that squinty ‘you are making human references that I don’t understand because I am an Angel of the Lord and have a stick up my ass’ look.

Dean lets out a frankly undignified noise of absolute fucking outrage because _what’s a Metallica_? “What’s a Metallica?” he repeats. “ _What’s a Metallica_?” 

“I don’t understand that reference, Dean. Is it some form of metal automobile, because you know that I am unfamiliar with makes of cars?”

“What’s a Metallica?” Dean says one more time (just for good measure because _what’s a Metallica?_ ). “Seriously, Cas, I need to get you better-educated. It’s a freaking band – and not just any band, one of the best bands you will ever hear – not a ‘metal automobile.’ What’s a Metallica,” which is when Dean loses it, starts laughing harder than he remembers doing in quite a while and doesn’t stop for what seems like hours, even though Cas still hasn’t blinked and Sam eventually walks in; just giving the pair of them a look, rolling his eyes and then going to salt the entrances. When Dean’s laughter subsides, he remains laying on the floor (which he doesn’t remember falling to in the first place), covered in dust, and lets out one last, broken chuckle because _what’s a Metallica_.

* * *

“Sam, what’s a Metallica?” Castiel asks later that day. They sit in a small diner on the outskirts of Oroville, Sam just having finished reading out a roughly translated passage from an old German version of the Bible.

Sam chokes on his water, lifting his eyes and staring at Castiel incredulously. “What?”

“What’s a Metallica? Dean mentioned it earlier today and if it’s something that he is passionate about then I would like to understand.” Castiel makes an effort to understand human references, and Dean is his best friend, so he will try his hardest to make sense of everything he says, although that is probably impossible because it seems that half of Dean’s speech is made up of references and innuendos that Castiel will never be able to learn. Even so, this particular ‘band’ as Dean specified it as seemed to bring him large amounts of joy, so this is a priority.

Sam lets out a small, strangled laugh. “Metallica’s a band,” he says, which doesn’t provide Cas with any deeper insight. 

“What do they do?” 

“They’re performing artists,” Sam replies. 

“What form of art?”

Dean chuckles, clapping Sam gently on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he says quietly. Castiel does not understand why Dean is saying this to Sam now. Of course, they will all need good luck over the next few days, but it seems an odd time to express it. Unless his statement has something to do with their current conversation, but he doesn’t understand how it could. Why would Sam need good luck to explain the intricacies of ‘Metallica’ to Castiel? Unless Dean is implying that Castiel is slow to understand these things? No matter how long he spends with them, humans will never stop being infuriatingly confusing.  

Sam glares at Dean before turning back to Castiel. “They’re musicians. They play music; heavy metal and rock and stuff. Not really my taste but Dean loves them.”

“Damn right I do,” Dean adds. “And d’you know what else I love? Pie. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry and could kill for some right now.”

“I don’t require food as nourishment,” Castiel reminds him. 

“I’m fine as well. All this lore about the seal and ritual has kinda taken away my appetite. I have to tell you, the German’s aren’t shy with their pictures,” Sam turns his small computer around, displaying a particularly graphic image of a demon sacrifice.

“Dude! Not at the breakfast table!” Dean practically cries, shoving the computer away. 

“It’s lunch time, Dean,” Sam says dryly, but with a small smirk on his face. 

“Same freaking difference,” Dean huffs. “Now move your gigantor body so I can get out and go grab a menu. What kind of diner doesn’t even have table-menu’s? Freaking California.” 

Sam lets out air through his nostrils, somewhere between a sigh and a breath, and stands so that Dean can pass. Castiel watches the exchange between the brothers intently. They are so comfortable around one another; it is evident in the way they move together and the easy way their conversations roll. They know when the other is joking, and will play along accordingly, but when the time is right they are also there to console each other. There are secrets between them: things Sam will never know about Dean’s time in Hell, things Dean may never know and _will_ never understand about who and what Sam is. Even in the short time that he has known them, Castiel has seen how co-dependant they are on each other, how lost one brother is without his respective counterpart.

Castiel would give anything to have someone like that. He had had brothers and sisters back in Heaven, but they were his comrades-in-arms before they were his family. There were some that he had been closer to: Balthazar, Rachael, Gabriel even, but none of them had ever cared about him the way the Winchesters care about each other. But at least back then, he had had family, as distant and cold as they could be. Now, as he watches Sam and Dean and sees their souls, one like a distorted mirror image of the other, the same and yet drastically different, he realises that he is alone. He is the Winchester’s friend, but will never be more to them. His bond with Dean is stronger than his one with Sam, but even to Dean he is nothing but the only angel who doesn’t want to kill them, who has saved their lives and questioned what is right. He will never have any stronger relationship with Dean; brotherly or otherwise. 

It is then, as he watches Dean stare at the pie menu near the counter, brow furrowed in concentration and fingers tapping an unfamiliar tune on the bench-top, that he realises that he does not want to be Dean’s brother. He doesn’t know what he wants to be. All he knows is that the link he feels towards Dean is not the same as the one he feels towards his siblings in Heaven, nor like the way Sam feels about Dean. Whatever the word to describe it is, he knows that he never wants to hurt Dean Winchester in any way, and will go to his death if it means that Dean can live. 

Something must show in his face, or in the way he is slowly contemplating Dean, because Sam gives him a worried look and quietly asks if he is okay.

“I’m fine, Sam,” Castiel says, turning his gaze back toward the younger Winchester. “You should go and get some food. I’ll stay here.”

Sam shakes his head. “Nah, I’m really not hungry. Just… just let us know if we can do anything for you,” he says, turning back to his laptop. “You’re our friend, Cas,” which for a reason that Castiel cannot discern, makes him feel a strange mix of sad and happy, which technically speaking should not be possible because they are wholly opposite concepts. Human emotions are a very complex thing. 

* * *

“So I guess that this is it,” Dean says grimly as he loads the trunk of the Impala. The full moon hangs heavy and bright in the sky above them, providing the only source of light that they will need. 

“The big showdown,” Sam agrees, gently fingering the metal flask in his pocket, aching to pull it out and drink, but knowing he must save the blood until they are there; there being the empty lot in the centre of town where the demons are gathering to perform their séance – exactly 13,666 of them, all planning to sacrifice their lives to bring about Hell on earth.

“It’s funny,” Dean says as he checks the gun cartridges, his voice absolutely humourless.

“What is?” Sam asks.

“How there always seems to be a Big Showdown. It’s just one freaking battle after the other, and every time it’s the Big Showdown. Every single day of our lives, Sammy, and there’s another Big Showdown just waiting to happen and fuck up everything we’ve worked at. There are only so many Big Showdowns that two people can win. One of these days we’re gonna die, and we’re not gonna come back. Just… I’m getting freaking sick of never knowing if we’ll live to see another day. This could be it. We could die tonight. Or we might survive and be killed by a vamp in a weeks’ time, or if not then by a shifter or a ghoul or the freaking God Squad. We just don’t know and I… I guess I’d like to know I’m not gonna die, you know?” Dean finishes.

“You’re not going to die tonight,” says a gravelly voice from the doorway of the house. “You or Sam, because I’m not going to let that happen.” Castiel meets Dean’s eyes from across the yard and stares at him, blue eyes unblinking. Dean stares right back, licking his lips as he does so, a gesture so relaxed that it is obviously unconscious. Sam thinks that if everything wasn’t so fucking depressing right now, then he might laugh, or make a joke about them getting a room, but as it is, joking seems wrong. Anyway, he doesn’t think he could laugh even if he tried. 

After a long bout of staring on the behalf of his brother and his brother’s angel, they silently hop into the Impala and begin what feels unavoidably like a march to their deaths. 

***

It is wrong. It is so, so wrong, and Sam knows it, but something in him is excited. His blood pumps with a mixture of adrenaline and demon blood, making him stronger, braver and an all ‘round better hunter. The flask in his pocket is empty, and he knows that what he has drunk will not be enough to kill 13,666 demons, but it doesn’t matter. There are 13,666 more demons just around the corner; walking vats of blood. He can smell them. 

God, it’s messed up, but he loves the feeling, craves it every minute of every day. Deep within him, he feels guilty, dirty and _sick_ about what he’s doing, but forefront, his intentions are good. He is going to stop the Apocalypse, even if the means by which he does it are less-than-ideal. 

“Do you want to go over the plan again?” Dean asks, heaving a 40 pound bag of salt out of the trunk and throwing it at Cas, who catches it one-handed and holds it like it weighs nothing. 

“We don’t have a plan,” Sam replies, because they really don’t. Days of tactics discussions and research about lore got them virtually nowhere, and now they are getting ready to run head-on into an army of demons. It would be instant suicide for any other three people, but they have Cas – who isn’t so much a person as a demon-smiting wavelength of celestial intent – and Sam, who is perhaps even more efficient at killing demons. And then there is Dean, who if he were with anyone else, would easily be the best hunter there. 

“We do have a plan,” Dean sighs. “Just a goddamn awful one.”

“I’m not going to let you die,” Cas reminds him, and Sam thinks that the statement is more directed toward Dean than himself. He likes Cas, but he isn’t sure if the angel feels the same way back. He seems reserved around Sam, as if he isn’t sure how to act, or what to say, almost like he is _scared_. Sam wishes he knew why, because he has never done anything that might hurt or offend Cas (except drink demon-blood, but what he is doing is _right_ ).

“Just don’t get yourself killed either, okay?” Dean says to Cas, giving him a small, almost invisible smile. “You’re okay. I mean, for an angel and all.” 

“Was that meant to be complementary or insulting?”

Sam can see Dean roll his eyes, even though his back is to him. “It’s a complement, Cas.”

“Then you are okay as well, Dean. For a human and all.” 

Dean laughs, and it is the last time anyone is remotely happy for the rest of the night.

* * *

_11:50_

There is literally so much sulphur in the air that the moon looks orange. Lines of demons go back for what must be blocks, wearing everyone from politicians to mechanics, house-wives to soldiers, pensioner’s to toddlers, the last of which makes Dean feel sick to the stomach. And they are all dead. It is easy to forget that when they look completely okay and healthy. Well, that is if you ignore the way their eyes are pitch black and turned upward to the glowing sky and the guttural, throaty language in which they chant. It is in the top ten most-terrifying-things that Dean has ever seen, and he literally makes a living on terrifying-things. There are demons wearing freaking _children_ and using them to shout a fucking mass-ghost-summoning spell in fucking ancient-German. 

They hide behind a building just off the edge of the clearing, Dean holding the demon-knife, Sam flexing his mental demon-killing muscles (which still freak Dean out, but now isn’t the time) and Cas looking like a complete bad-ass with his billowing trench-coat and intense, determined glare. They really make quite the team.

* * *

_11:51_

“On the count of three,” Dean whispers from beside him, and Sam tightens his grip on his knife. It won’t do any good to _kill_ demons, but the blade is encrusted with salt, so it should give them quite a sting. 

“One,” Dean says, and Sam braces himself.

“Two,” to an outsider Dean would sound fearless, but Sam knows how terrified he actually is.

“Three,” and they charge forward, one Angel and two hunters against the might of Hell itself.

* * *

_11:52_

The demons don’t see them coming, or maybe they simply don’t care. They have killed seven demons – which is only 0.512% of the total army – when they finally start to fight back.

In one hand Castiel’s angel blade glows, the shiny silver surface already covered in blood, and the other he uses to press against demon’s heads, making them burn and sizzle inside their human bodies. Dean’s shoulder briefly brushes against his, and he sends a burst of power towards him, healing the small and yet obviously painful wounds that have already accumulated. 

He senses Sam several feel to his right, hands outstretched and exorcising demons with his mind, his soul a chaotic mix of white-goodness and black, demonic, gloom. With each demon that is sent back to hell, the darkness pulses, and it is impossible to tell whether it is trying to expand or sink in on itself. 

Castiel prays to whatever is listening – because it is most certainly not God – that Sam does not pass the point of no return. 

* * *

_11:53_

There are demons everywhere. Dean kills one, and another takes its place before he can tighten his grip on his knife, or wipe the blood off of his face or _fucking breathe_. They are everywhere, and Dean just counts it lucky that for some reason (fuck knows why) they are not using their telepathic throw-you-at-the-nearest-hard-object powers. But he is not going to question it. 

He has to forget that these used to be people. These are monsters now and it’s his job to kill them. It doesn’t matter that he just stabbed a pregnant woman in stretch-pants, or a man who had to have been more than ninety; they are all demons now. They are dead anyway, so even if he could exorcise them all, the people wouldn’t survive. He just wishes that there could have been a way to _save_ them, instead of just letting them get possessed. As Cas had reminded him a million times, if they were going to stop this then this was the best way; there was no way of knowing who was a demon until now, but he _hates_ it.

Instead of letting thoughts of how wrong this is, and the unavoidable memories of Hell, consume him, he slices the throat of a three-year-old boy in Buzz Lightyear overalls and doesn’t spare a second glance as the boy’s blood stains everything a dark shade of crimson. 

* * *

_11:54_

Sam isn’t sure how much longer he can go without drinking. He _needs_ it. If he doesn’t stop and regain his strength in the next five minutes then he will collapse and end up dead. 

_Keep going_ , he says over and over in his head, exorcising one demon after the other and trying to stop himself from jumping one, slicing its throat and drinking it dry. _Keep going_ , he tells himself, but holy fuck it’s hard. 

* * *

_11:55_

There are too many. Castiel smites and slashes and throws demons backwards with the force of his mind. He gives his wings just enough corporeality to whack every hell-spawn that tries to sneak up behind him, or is just stupid enough to get in his way. He’s covered in blood, he can feel it sticking to his vessel’s skin and matting his vessel’s hair, but it is irrelevant and superficial.

He can’t let them fail. He promised Dean that they would survive and he did not fall from grace to have this happen. He can’t let them fail.

* * *

  _11:56_

Everywhere is blood, bone and carnage, and for the first time since he got back, Dean is sure that he’s back in Hell. 

* * *

_11:57_

Sam needs it. He needs it, and he’s going to have it. _Now_. If he doesn’t drink right the fuck now then he will either collapse from over-exertion or be driven mad by the thumping desire that courses through him.

The entire field is painted red with demon blood; it sticks to Sam, the smell teasing him and making him physically _ache_ with need. But there is no break in the oncoming tide of demons. He can’t stop or he will end up dead. Sure, they can’t use their mojo against him, but he is human, and a well-aimed blow will make him nothing more than a pile of bone, skin and blood.

What used to be a woman in her mid-thirties comes hurtling at him, a guttural cry in her throat and before he even knows what he is doing, he is grabbing her and slicing through the pulsing vein in her neck. He drinks from her, feeling the familiar rush and boil in the pit of his stomach. He wants to keep going, but he feels fingernails scratching at the back of his neck and strong limbs thrashing against him from all angles.

He stands up and with a sweep of his hand sends them all flying, amassments of black smoke shooting out of their mouths as they go.

* * *

_11:58_

Castiel sees the black in Sam’s soul swell with renewed vigour. He needs to make it stop. He can’t let them fail.

* * *

_11:59_

Dean stabs a demon in the chest, and then looks back over at Sam, whose mouth is stained red with blood for a whole different reason than Dean’s. He repeats this process – as he has been doing for the last few minutes (or maybe it is hours, he doesn’t even know anymore); stab; check on Sam; stab; check on Sam; stab; check on Sam, and continue infinitely. 

“Dean,” he hears Cas shout over the animalistic yells of the demons. “Dean, you need to hold them off.” 

If Dean weren’t up to his knees in corpses, so covered in blood he can barely _see_ and fighting a literal Army Of Hell, then he would reply with a sarcastic ‘what the fucking fuck do you think I’m fucking doing motherfucker’ or something equally as emotive and full of the word ‘fuck’, but as it is, he _is_ fighting a literal Army Of Hell, worrying about his brother _who just drank fucking demon blood like it was nothing_ and trying not to die. 

“Dean!” Cas yells again, his voice more urgent than Dean has ever heard it. “I need to get to Sam. I can help him, I –” he pauses and Dean hears more piercing, demonic screams from the angel’s general area. “I can save him. Please Dean, we need to save Sam.” There is something about Castiel’s I-eat-gravel-for-breakfast voice saying the words ‘save Sam’ that make Dean feel ten times stronger, twenty times angrier and thirty times more determined to gank every single son of a bitch that so much as looks at him. 

* * *

_12:00_

“Please Dean, we need to save Sam,” Castiel shouts from somewhere behind the never faltering wall of demons. Sam doesn’t need saving. Sam is fine. Right now he is powerful and won’t stop being powerful because he has an almost endless supply of demon blood at his disposal.

But before he can do or say anything, Castiel is standing in front of him, somehow no longer bloody and beaten as Sam had _sworn_ he was the last time he saw him, instead being perfectly clean; his hair familiarly messy, his trench-coat seemingly just-washed and his white shirt crisp and clean. His eyes though are scarily dark, and his face is all sharp lines and menacing shadows under the sulphurous orange moon. For the first time Sam can remember, he looks less like a human and more like an avenging angel of Biblical lore. 

“Sam,” Castiel says, “I’m sorry.”

He takes a step forward and Sam retreats, still flicking demons backwards with half-hearted wrist-movements. “Cas, what are you doing? I’m killing the demons! Cas, stop!” But Castiel doesn’t, and once again, Sam is certain that he is going to die at the hand of his brother’s angel.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Castiel says, before plunging a hand directly into Sam’s torso, somehow breaking through skin and bone and organs without actually _breaking_ anything. 

The pain is more than words can describe. 

Sam screams, the sky goes black with a massive swirl of smoke, and the field erupts into a cacophony of primeval shouts of pain, Sam’s own getting lost in the din. As he blacks out, he understands what it feels like to welcome death with open arms.  


	6. Chapter Five

The next week is the hardest in Castiel’s entire life. Dean doesn’t talk to him except to remind him that it’s his fault, Bobby regularly tells him that unless he is going to do something useful then he can get off his property and Sam… Sam could die at any moment. Castiel didn’t mean for it to happen like this but he had no other choice. 

He just wishes Dean understood. He just wishes Sam would wake up. He just wishes that there was something – _anything_ – that he could do to fix it, because he has never seen things more broken than they are now.

***

“Cas, what are you doing? I’m killing the demons! Cas, stop!” Sam exclaims. It is 12:00am on the 5th of December, Oroville, California. They are in the middle of a battle, roughly 4,555 demons for each one of them. The odds are hopeless; there is no way that they will make it out of this alive.

Sam is one ounce of demon-blood away from losing his humanity. Castiel can feel the light inside of him slowly being overcome. It is not Sam’s fault, but Castiel needs to stop it. Sam is his friend and he _will not_ allow him to become a monster. 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Castiel says, before grabbing him by the shoulder and plunging his hand deep inside his chest. Sam screams and writhes, his pain reverberating through the angel, the loudness of it overwhelming. Dean spares a glance in their direction and nearly gets stabbed by a demon, but he twists around at the last minute and skewers it in the heart. Castiel aches to go and help Dean, but at the moment Sam is his highest priority. 

He can feel Sam’s soul. He grabs onto the blackness and _pulls_ , forcing his essence to separate, blackness being cut out and leaving only the untainted humanity behind. Castiel knows how intense the pain Sam is experiencing feels, because a similar process was performed on him not long ago, and he would not wish this upon anyone let alone one of his best friends, but he has to do this. If he doesn’t then there is no knowing what Sam will turn into. 

Finally, Castiel’s hand pulls free. Black smoke billows up from his loosely cupped hand and turns the sky into a dark, rolling cloud, blotting out the moon and stars and cutting off all electricity for miles. The only light comes from Sam, unconscious and barely alive, who glows with an intense whiteness not dissimilar to that of an angel’s grace. But Sam is not an angel. He is a man; a man whose body single handily fights against more demon-smoke than Castiel has ever seen. It is enough to be divided into twenty-thousand host bodies, if not more, and all of it is trying to force its way back inside the younger Winchester. 

Castiel can hear Dean calling out from behind them, and he slowly turns his head and stares up at him from where he kneels, surrounded by corpses and hands bloody from reaching into Sam. Dean’s eyes are wide and Castiel has never seen him this scared. He reaches out his consciousness just enough to try and reassure Dean that everything is okay, but is hit with such a strong wall of emotion that he physically flinches. 

Dean tries to run forward, but his movement seems to reawaken the demon-army out of their stupor, and they go from mobile and staring at the moving sky to all trying to kill Dean where he stands. Again, Castiel aches to assist him but he can’t. Dean will be okay. If any one man can stop an onslaught of over thirteen-thousand demons then it is Dean. He will be okay.

Sam’s body gives a lurch and his eyes fly open for a second. A shattered scream tears its way out of his throat and suddenly all around them, demons are falling to their knees. One after the other, they sizzle and fall to the ground until the only person on their feet for miles is Dean. As suddenly as it started, all screaming stops. It goes dark. Once again Sam turns limp, only barely alive, and the smoke in the sky clears with unnatural celerity. 

Castiel feels thousands of clocks all over town click over to _12:01_ and it is over. There they are, one falling angel, one stunned hunter and one broken boy, in the aftermath of the biggest and yet shortest battle that they will ever see. And they won. 

***

Castiel wishes that their victory had not been at such a heavy price. When Sam fell unconscious for the second time, he stayed that way. He is now in Bobby’s spare-room, not sick or feverish, simply asleep. The first thing Castiel did was try to fix him, but there was and is nothing he can do. Maybe it is because he no longer has that much grace, or maybe it is because what happened to Sam is so impossible that fixing him is also impossible.

Sam Winchester was already an anomaly; he was born human and then turned half-demon; he was destined to end the world, paving his own path with never-ending bricks of good intentions; he had a darkness in his soul that threatened to overthrow him and yet didn’t. Now, Sam Winchester is impossible; he was born human, turned half-demon and then turned back again; he was destined to end the world, but now never will because his means are dead; his soul is pure and good. 

Castiel supposes that in a way, they are all anomalies. There is Sam, the impossible child-of-Hell who is now nothing more than a human. There is Dean, who sold his soul, broke the first seal and then was raised from perdition to play his role, only to not, sticking it to every being that got in his way, whether monster, demon or Warrior of God. And then, there is Castiel, the angel who disobeyed Heaven and broke every rule in the book to save these two utterly implausible human-beings, and together they are slowly changing the fate of the world. Soon, Castiel will just be another human. He will live and he will die, except unlike most, he will not be insignificant, and nor will the Winchester’s. They are in this together, and even if Sam and Dean don’t realise it yet, they have just stopped to Apocalypse from ever being allowed to happen. 

Castiel realises that he has done more since beginning his slow decent than in several thousand years of angelic divinity. But he still needs Sam to wake up. 

* * *

Right now, Dean hates Cas. He really fucking hates him. _Sam was going to turn into a demon_ , Cas says. _Sam would have died_ , Cas says. _I didn’t mean for this to happen_ , Cas says. Dean doesn’t give a fuck why Cas did it because his little brother is in a fucking coma and the angel is the one who put him there in the first place.

Dean has had a week to let his anger boil, and he is just about ready to slit Castiel’s throat while he sleeps, except he doesn’t sleep and no weapon Dean has would work on him. Cas was just trying to help, but he just made everything worse. If Sam wasn’t nearly dead, Dean would have him locked up in the panic room because it is just fucking wrong to drink demon blood, but he is nearly dead and so he doesn’t give a fuck about the demon-blood as long as Sam wakes up. 

Cas has explained what happened so many times that Dean can hear his voice in is head telling him how Sam’s soul was almost all black, and that if he had drunk once more then he would have turned, and how he pulled out the demon-part which had then made Sam’s soul glow in some freaking ‘explosion of good’ or some shit and then killed every demon there. Dean doesn’t care. He doesn’t care why Cas did it, because this is _Sam_ they’re talking about. It’s his job to protect Sam but then his best friend has gone and fucked it all up.

Dean has never felt so betrayed in his life. He dumps it all on Cas, but he is actually just as angry at Sam, if not more. Good intentions are going to be the death of them all. Dean has no idea how long Sam has been doing this, drinking demon blood. It would explain why some days Sam seems drawn-out, like he’s a drug addict who’s gone too long without a hit. He _is_ drug addict, Dean supposes, but his drug isn’t something normal and _human_ , but demon-blood. _Blood from a motherfucking demon_. Sam has been lying to him probably since he got back from Hell. He was always the one person he could trust, but apparently not any more. 

It doesn’t mean that all of Dean’s anger toward Cas is misguided though, because Cas fucked up as well. Dean knows that if Sam wakes up, then he will forgive Cas, but if he doesn’t, then he will find a way to hunt the angel down and kill him. It’s just easier to hate Castiel than dig deeper into what actually happened. Maybe it makes him a coward, but he’s past caring. 

But seven days of nothing have given Dean too much time to think. This whole thing is a goddamn mess of who betrayed who and who hurt who and who tried to kill who but then didn’t. Sam betrayed both Dean and Cas, and it is actual keeping-secrets-that-could-kill-us-all-and-doing-things-that-are-obviously-messed-up betrayal, not my-dad-ordered-me-to-kill-you-but-I-couln’t-because-I-like-you-too-much betrayal. Something in Dean just wants to go find Cas (who is still in the house but he’ll be fucked if he knows where) and vent to him and cry on his shoulder like a fucking teenage-girl, but he hates Cas at the moment, so he’s not going to do that. He can see that Bobby is worried about him, because pretty much all he has done since Oroville is drink, eat and sleep, but Bobby is a hypocrite because he’s not any better.

Everything is stupid. He can’t even get his thoughts to form proper thoughts. He doesn’t know what his feelings are doing because he hates everyone, but he also cares about them at the same time and _he just needs Sam to wake up_. 

They shouldn’t even be alive right now. There is no way that they should have walked out of that fight in one piece. Cas had sworn he wouldn’t let them die, but even he must have known how hopeless it was. Dean hates everything. The entirety of Oroville is _dead_ and there was nothing they could do about it. He also knows that if it weren’t for Sam and Cas, then the three of them would be dead as well, but it was not the way things should have happened.

Dean doesn’t know what to do, or what to think anymore, so he just pours himself another glass of whiskey and waits for his brother to be okay. 

* * *

Sam wakes up at exactly 12:00 that night. Castiel appears in Sam’s room when he hears Dean yell, expecting the worst but finding quite the opposite. Dean smothers Sam in a hug, but Sam doesn’t reciprocate, just looking confused and like he seriously lacks air.

“Dean,” Sam chokes. “Dean, I can’t breathe.” 

“Sorry,” Dean says, pulling away and sitting down on the chair next to the bed. “I’m just glad you’re awake, Sammy I –” Dean scratches the back of his head and sighs. “I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay.”

Sam frowns. “Wait, what’d you mean you’re glad I’m awake? How long was I asleep?” 

Dean looks over at Castiel, who feels a slight jolt at the eye contact. Dean hasn’t looked at him in a week. “Seven days, Sam,” Castiel answers on Dean’s behalf. “You were asleep for seven days.” 

“A week?” Sam goes to get out of the bed, but Dean’s hands on his shoulders push him back down. He shoves Dean off and stands up. “What happened?”

Dean chews on his top lip, a gesture Castiel has come to associate with Dean when he is worried. “What do you remember?”

“I – we were, we were in California,” Sam says, and Castiel can see him concentrating. “There were demons, lot of demons, and they were going to break a seal. We went to stop them and I remember fighting and then…” he frowns further, “and then nothing. There’s just this gap.” 

“What about before that?” Dean asks. 

“What do you mean?”

“Anything you want to tell me, Sam.” His voice is gradually getting sharper, his eyes colder. 

Sam frowns and then shakes his head. “No, why?”

Dean exhales heavily. “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush here. We know about the demon-blood.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Dean…”

Castiel can’t help but feel like he is intruding. “I’ll just –” he begins, but is cut off by a sharp ‘you’re not going anywhere’ from Dean. 

“Dean, please let me explain,” Sam pleads. 

“I know, okay. ‘You had to kill Lilith.’ But demon-blood, Sam? You had to know that’s wrong.” Castiel can see Dean getting angrier. “Fucking hell, Sammy, you nearly turned into a fucking demon!” 

“What?” Sam asks sharply, and Castiel realises he doesn’t know how close it came. 

Dean looks over at Cas again, like he is asking for confirmation, or maybe help. “The demon blood,” Castiel says, since it doesn’t look like Dean will, “It corrupted your soul. During the battle you… you drank too much and it nearly overcame you. I pulled it out and it killed the rest of the demons, but you nearly died in the process.” Castiel drops his gaze, before letting it flicker back up to Dean, who still looks at him with the same intensity. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“You _pulled it out_?” Sam asks, lifting his eye-brows. “How did you _pull it out_?” 

“With great suffering on your behalf, I’m afraid. It is probably for the best that you don’t remember.” Castiel thinks of that day in Heaven, the day that everything changed. Even the mere memory of the pain makes him want to collapse, and he would give anything to forget it. 

“But how can you pull out the demon blood?” Sam asks. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“I didn’t so much pull out the demon blood as much as the corrupted part of your soul,” Castiel explains, trying to find words that the Winchesters will understand to describe it. “Imagine… imagine Sam’s soul as a piece of fruit, and the contaminated part – which was a result of both Azazel feeding it to you at birth and your prolonged drinking of it – is like a bruise on the fruit. I,” he searches for another metaphor that will fit in appropriately, “I cut off the bruised part and left only the ripened and healthy fruit behind, or in this case soul.” 

“But how will I kill Lilith now?” Sam says, sounding alarmed. 

Castiel sighs. “You won’t. No one will. Lilith isn’t only going to break the final seal, she _is_ the final seal. You were destined to kill her and thus release Lucifer.” 

“And you never thought to tell us this _before_?” Dean asks, taking a step towards Castiel. 

“It never came up,” Castiel says, looking up to meet Dean’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Dean looks like he is about to say something else, or maybe punch Castiel, but Sam puts a hand on his chest and pulls him back. “Dean, leave it. It’s okay.”

“You know what, Sammy? No it’s not,” Dean snarls, before pushing past Sam and Castiel and storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 

Sam runs a hand through his hair and then looks over at Cas. “How are you feeling?” Castiel asks. 

“Honestly? I’m fine. A bit hungry I guess, but...” Sam shrugs. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like I was asleep for a week or like I just had my soul torn in two or anything. I just feel normal.”

“Dean and Bobby will be relieved.” Castiel is also relieved, and he hopes Sam can see this. Once again, one of the Winchester’s defied all logic and ended up alive when they should, by all rights, be dead. 

“We’re at Bobby’s house?” Sam asks, looking around the room for the first time and smiling. “Huh, I’ve never even seen this room.”

Castiel is not in the mood for small talk. “One of us should speak to Dean,” he says bluntly.

Sam sobers instantly. “I don’t think he’ll want to talk to me just yet,” he sighs. 

“We are not exactly on speaking terms either,” Castiel admits. 

“This whole thing is messed up,” Sam shakes his head. Castiel isn’t sure what exactly he means by ‘this whole thing’, because there is a plethora of messed-up things that he could currently be referring to. There is the Apocalypse, there is Sam’s ex-blood-addiction, there is Dean’s hot-headedness and unwillingness to speak to anyone, there is the fact that Sam barely survived… the list goes on. 

Instead of trying to decipher which ‘messed up thing’ Sam is referring to, Castiel nods and says, “I believe that Dean would be more willing to speak to you than me. He is angry at me for nearly killing you.”

“Just so we’re clear, there are no hard feelings here, alright? I probably should be more freaked out about this whole thing, but I guess it just hasn’t caught up to me yet.” Sam shrugs. “I really think Dean will forgive you now that I’m okay. He’ll forgive me as well, but it’ll take longer because what I did was worse. He likes you more than you realise Cas. He’ll talk to you.” 

“What do I say?” Castiel asks. His communication skills are still somewhat lacking. 

“Honestly? I have no idea. It’s Dean, you’ll work it out.”

“And what are you going to do?” Castiel asks. He has to be certain that Sam is not going to leave the house and go and meet up with the demon Ruby. The last thing they need is for him to have a relapse. 

“Me? I’m going to have a shower, because I smell like war with a week of bed piled on the top. Just see if you can get Dean to calm down, ‘cause otherwise he’ll be angry for another two weeks.”

* * *

Sam is awake and Dean still hates everything. Not that he isn’t relieved, because he sure as fuck is, but he is also so much angrier than he was before. Sam was apparently supposed to start the Apocalypse and Cas didn’t tell them and knowing those two, they are probably now painting each other’s nails and talking about their fucking feelings. Sam is so… _normal_. It’s infuriating! He just got demon-soul pulled out of him and he is just _okay_ both mentally and physically, and as much as Dean is glad about it, it’s freaking unnatural. He should be a crying mess right now, or at least a bit shaken up, but instead he is Mr Fucking Level Headed.

Dean hears the familiar flutter of wings from behind him. “Dean.”

“What do you want?” Dean grunts, suddenly overcome with the urge to fucking punch the angel. 

“Sam wanted me to talk to you,” Cas says, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “He’s worried.” 

“Well tell him I’m peachy!” Dean drawls.

“I don’t understand that statement, but he was concerned about you.”

“Then why doesn’t he come down here and speak to me himself instead of sending you down? Since when are you Sam’s bitch?” Last time Dean checked, they didn’t even like each other, and now from the looks of it they’re one step away from getting matching friendship bracelets. 

“Please stop using phrases I don’t understand,” Cas says, sounding frustrated, and Dean thinks it fucking serves him right because… Dean doesn’t even know why any more but it just does.

“No, I won’t, because I’m really fucking pissed off right now, and besides, I’m not even talking to you,” Dean says, stepping closer to Castiel, enjoying the angry gleam in the angel’s eyes more than he probably should. He doesn’t have the time or functioning brain-cells right now to psychoanalyse how _good_ arguing feels.  

“That was part of the reason Sam was concerned, Dean. You’re not talking to anyone!” Castiel says, glaring at Dean. 

“Yeah, well… with all due respect Cas, fuck off. I don’t need it right now, okay?” Dean turns around and runs a hand across his face. “I don’t need it.”

Suddenly, hands are on Dean’s shoulders and he is being pushed up against the wall, a picture frame splintering behind him as he hits. “We don’t need it either _Dean_ ,” Cas growls, his face only inches away. “Sam just nearly died, and you’re too busy wallowing in your own self-pity to talk to him.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean snarls back, ten times angrier than he already was (even though that shouldn’t be possible because he was pretty damn angry). “Of course I fucking care about Sam, but I’m still not exactly comfy with the whole _demon_ thing. I need some time to adjust.”

“You’ve had time,” Cas says, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve had the past week to acclimatise yourself. Sam isn’t part demon anymore, Dean. He is a human who is worried about his older brother, who refuses to talk to _anyone_. Sam wants to apologise to you. He feels guilty, and knows what he did is wrong; I can _hear_ it. He is concerned, because you are not – as he put it – on ‘speaking terms’ with either of us, and you’re broken Dean. You’re hiding under this mask of bravery and drowning yourself in alcohol, but you’re so much more broken than Sam is, even at his worst. He cares about you, Dean. _I_ care about you, and what do you do with that?” Cas shoves him again, and Dean grunts under the impact. He has never seen Cas this angry before. It’s fucking terrifying. “You push us away, you don’t let us help. Dean Winchester, always so desperate to save everyone, but when you are the one who needs saving you don’t let anyone in. You need us Dean, just like we need you.”

“You don’t need me,” Dean spits.

Castiel’s voice drops, and Dean can practically feel the electricity and angel-power sizzle off of him. “For someone who thinks they are so important, you really have a very low self-esteem.”

“You don’t need me,” Dean repeats. “It’s my fault, all of it. If it weren’t for me then we wouldn’t even be worrying about the Apocalypse. Sam would be fine and you could fuck off to wherever it is you belong.”

Dean thinks that Castiel is one step away from smiting him on the spot. “I belong here, Dean, with you,” he growls, and if Dean weren’t so fucking angry right now, he would notice how _gay_ that sounds, especially considering Cas has him pinned to the wall, his face only inches away. But as it is he still just wants to punch something, and he would if his arms weren’t being held down by the fucking hulk in a nerd-angel suit. 

“No you don’t,” Dean says, the words pouring out of his mouth before his brain even knows what it wants to say. “ _You’re not my family_. You nearly killed the only family I have. You’re nothing, Cas. _I don’t need you_.” 

Dean doesn’t have time to process what is happening before a fist is flying at his head and the inside of his skull is ringing. Another fist hits his stomach, and he doubles over in pain, but then he is being hauled back up and thrown against the wall again, fists flying, Dean not even getting enough time to block let alone fight back. 

“Well I need you, Dean, and so does Sam, so do yourself a favour and realise it,” and then Castiel is gone and Dean is lying on the floor, broken, bruised and bloody, and probably having just lost the best non-Sam friend he’s ever had, and all because he’s a fucking idiot who doesn’t know how to accept it when something is good.


	7. Chapter Six

Dean isn’t sure exactly where everything went wrong. It could have been that first day with the un-original witch and Cas turned terminator; it could have been when Cas decided to become their new stay-at-home angel; it could have been when they first decided to travel to Oroville or it could have been long, long before any of that, the day Dean went and got Sammy from Stanford and ruined every speck of normality he had worked so hard to have. 

All Dean does know is that somewhere down the line, he made a spectacular fuck-up and not only broke everyone he cares about, but also the _planet_. He is 100% aware that Sam stopped being a kid a long time ago, but now that is more evident than ever. He is handling this (this being the whole demon-blood/Apocalypse thing) like a man, instead of like a fucking girl like Dean is. He just doesn’t know what to do anymore. 

Sam says he’s fine, and unless he suddenly got a master’s degree in acting, he _is_. It’s been a day since his miraculous recovery and he’s just _Sam_. He hasn’t even mentioned the demon-bitch, Ruby (and Dean’s just gonna leave that one alone, because hey, he’s not gonna look the gift horse in the mouth.) Dean should be the one worrying about Sam and trying to put him back together, not the other way around. He can see Sam aching to talk, but Dean knows that if they do talk then he will just scare Sam away like he did with Cas, and then he will be left with no-one but Bobby, who – as much as Dean cares about him and all that – is _Bobby_. 

Dean hates himself for thinking it, but Sam isn’t allowed to be this okay. If Dean were in his shoes, then he would be a mess, but Sam is just _dealing_. He should be in need of comfort, in the form of course of a bottle of whiskey, some greasy artery-clogging food and a good old monster-killing spree, not acting like it’s all some little… _something_. 

Dean isn’t allowed to be the broken one. Cas was right when he said that he was messed up inside, and that he pushed people away. But Dean can’t afford to be broken. He has to be the strong one; the one who saves the world over and over and fixes the people he loves when they’re damaged, not the one who can’t so much as look at his little brother without nearly crying, or who fucks up every friendship he’s ever had and then regrets it for days, or who sometimes just wants to let the world burn, helping it along with a push in the right direction and a ‘hey, thanks for coming, but you need to leave now’ card. He just can’t freaking afford it. 

Sam just went through some serious shit, and Dean can’t even find it within him to do more than give him a hug and tell him he’s glad he’s okay. Dean knows that it’s all over now, but that still doesn’t excuse the fact that Sam was drinking fucking demon-blood. 

And then of course, there’s Cas.

He doesn’t even know where to begin with Cas. He literally told Dean he _needs_ him but then Dean told him – not in so many words, but the point stands – to fuck off because he doesn’t like him. Fuck, he wishes he could take it back. He tried praying, but surprise, surprise, Cas didn’t come. Castiel is something new, something Dean has never had in his life before, and not just because of the whole Angel of the Lord thing. He has never really had a friend, apart from Sam of course, and Bobby, but Sam is his brother and Bobby is like a father. Cas has no blood-relation to Dean, no reason to care about him at all, and yet he does. He kind of hates it, but Dean cares about the stupid son of a bitch as well. Apparently, friends are not something Dean knows how to have. 

He should go and fix whatever it is with Sam, or go vent to Bobby, or hell, do anything even slightly productive, but instead he’s just going to let himself fall into yet another pool of guilt, regret, anger and alcohol, and he is going to stay there until he drowns. 

* * *

Castiel is glad for the fact that he is still mostly-angel, because it makes it so much easier to run away. He doesn’t know what he is running from exactly, but it has something to do with Dean Winchester. But then again, everything in Castiel’s life lately has something to do with Dean Winchester. 

Here Castiel had been, thinking that he would not be alone through this, but as Dean had said, he is nothing, he isn’t needed. Some deluded part of him had thought that the Winchester’s actually _cared_ about him, but he had been just that: deluded. He knows that Dean was angry, but centuries of watching humanity have taught him that when people get angry, they get brutally honest.

Castiel is tempted to just fly back to Bobby’s house and _make_ Dean talk to him until he is fixed, but that will never happen, because firstly, no one can _make_ Dean Winchester do anything and secondly, Castiel would not even know where to begin. What is wrong with Dean is not the same as what was wrong with Sam; Sam’s problem had been more physical than anything, and physical illnesses Castiel knows how to fix. Dean on the other hand is hurt somewhere on the inside. Maybe it is his mind, or his soul, or a mixture of both, but there is most definitely something deeply broken within him.

Castiel is aware of what Hell does to a human. Their souls are tortured and flayed, whether they are on or off the rack, until eventually they become so twisted they lose their humanity all together. Hell is not designed to be temporary. Once you are there, there is not supposed to be a ‘way out’ or ‘salvation,’ the damnation is eternal and all-encompassing. For a soul to be taken to Hell and experience its horror and then be pulled back to Earth? It is no wonder Dean Winchester is broken. Remembering every second of the violence and blood and fire that one experiences in the pit is part of what makes a demon a demon. These memories are not designed to be held by humans. Really, when Castiel thinks about it, it is a wonder that Dean still functions at all. 

As Dean would say, Castiel is ‘fucking worried.’ He is _so_ , _so_ angry at Dean; angrier than he has ever been in his entire life. He chose Dean over all the might of Heaven and of Hell, only to be pushed away and deprived of the only things he has left. He is falling from Grace, all because of two broken and scarred young men with more heart and more anger than anyone he has ever met. All he wants to do is make Dean better, but he doesn’t even know what ‘better’ is, let alone how to attain it. He will never be to Dean what Sam is, he understands that and does not feel bitter or jealous because they are _brothers_ , and family is everything, but he wants to be something.

There it is again; the feeling of wanting to be there for Dean, but not as his brother or guardian or fellow-soldier. He doesn’t understand. 

Whatever it is that he wants to be to him, he knows he cannot do this while Dean won’t so much as talk to him. He wonders if he has forgiven Sam yet, but knowing Dean, the answer is most likely no. 

It is funny, Castiel thinks, how every time he saves the Winchesters he soon after finds himself alone, despondent and so very, very confused. 

***

It is December the 14th when Castiel finally gives in and goes back to the Winchesters, but another day after that before he makes himself visible, and even then, it is only because he can feel his power dwindling. In this time, he learns surprisingly much, like how Sam deletes Ruby’s number from his phone, how Bobby Singer has taken to hiding alcohol from Dean and how Dean won’t talk to either of them.

“Dean,” Sam had said cautiously, while Dean had sat at his computer watching animated pornography, “Would you like to tell me what’s been going on in your head lately?”

“Not really,” Dean said, not looking up from his screen. 

Sam sighed. “Look, you know I’m sorry. How many times do I have to say that I regret what I did? I really do, Dean, and if you could talk to me…” 

“We have talked,” Dean said, glancing upwards. “We’ve had this same freaking conversation a million times and I’m fine, you’re fine, Bobby’s fine, Cas’ probably even fine, so how ‘bout we let it go?”

“Conversations are usually two-sided,” Sam pointed out. “I’ve talked to you, but you just keep deflecting. I need to know how you feel Dean.”

Dean slammed his computer-lid shut. “ _You_ _need to know how I feel_ ,” he drawled. “That’s nice, Sammy; how about we go sit down and I’ll tell you. And while we’re talking I’ll put on some Spice Girls and we can braid each other’s hair!” Dean smiled at Sam, and for once Castiel did not need help detecting sarcasm. 

Sam just glared at his brother and said, “Fine, but if you won’t talk to me, at least talk to Bobby,” before completely deflating and walking out of the room.

Castiel had stood in the corner of the room for another ten minutes, just watching as Dean sunk in on himself, running a hand over his bruised face – bruises that Castiel caused – and sighing loudly, finally dropping his stoic demeanour now that he thought no one could see. Castiel felt like he was intruding, and so he had left to go and watch Bobby Singer fix an old car. 

The second time someone – namely Bobby – tried the same sort of tactic on Dean, but his words a lot harsher and lacking Sam’s care for feelings, Dean once again did as Sam had said he did and deflected. Bobby had called him an ‘idjit’ (Castiel still doesn’t fully understand this term, but believes it to be synonymous with ‘fool’), told him to ‘stop being such a girl about it’ and ‘man up and accept that he needs help.’ Dean had used a creative litany of swears to tell Bobby that no, he wouldn’t. 

This is what makes Castiel doubt that Dean will ever listen to him, but once he can no longer remain invisible, he feels as if he may as well _try_. After all, it cannot go worse than last time, and this time he thinks he will at least be able to refrain from hurting Dean. He isn’t sure what to do – communication still isn’t his forte – and so he simply appears before Dean while the hunter watches yet more animated pornography, this time the main subject being a bosomy Asian woman wearing leather lingerie. 

“Dean,” he says, in way of a greeting. 

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, slamming his laptop shut, but then seeming to remember that he is angry and letting out a gruff, “What’d you want?”

“I would like you to listen to me,” Castiel says, sitting down in the chair opposite Dean, because he has observed that people find it less intimidating to be at eye level. 

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been talking to Sam and Bobby about me? I’m _fine_ , okay.”

“I haven’t been speaking to Sam and Bobby about you,” Castiel says, and Dean visibly relaxes slightly. “And I’m glad to see that you’re no longer angry at me.”

“Yea, well, I am angry at you still,” Dean says, but Castiel can feel that he is not. He doesn’t mean to pick up human emotions, but they can be so _loud_ it is impossible not to. Dean feels guilty. 

“No, you’re not,” Castiel says. “But you are still angry, just not at Bobby, Sam or I.” 

“Can we please not turn this into freaking Dr Phil?” Dean leans back in his chair. Castiel believes that he is beginning to deflect.

“I don’t understand that reference, but if it is necessary then, yes, we will turn this into Dr Phil.”

Dean lets out a small chuckle. “Yeah, ok then, but just so you know, I’m not gonna suddenly spill my whole _everything_ to you just ‘cause you’re wearing a trench-coat and staring at me like a freaking therapist.”

“I’m not a therapist, Dean, but I am your friend.”

“And how’s that working out for you? You know it’s only a matter of time before you end up dead don’t you, ‘cause no one can so much as look at me without freaking dying anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Castiel reminds him. There are of course some monsters and such that can kill every living soul who looks at them, but Dean is not one of these. He is a human hunter.

Dean gives him a condescending look. “I really hope you didn’t take that literally, because if you did, _Jesus, Cas_.” 

Castiel squints at Dean. “You’re deflecting again.”

Dean sighs in return. “Look, I’m not sure what you want me to say here. Maybe I’m not exactly Mr Chuckles at the moment, but I’m a hunter; my life isn’t ever going to be all rainbows and sunshine.” 

“Tell me how you feel.”

“Why?” Dean says. He goes to move – presumably to get a drink – but after a sharp look from Castiel, sits back down. “You’re not going to be able to flick a switch and make me better, so what’s the point?”

“Discussion can provide therapy,” Castiel replies. 

“I don’t need _therapy_.”

“You went to Hell, Dean. I know more than most the true extent of that word.”

“Really,” Dean smiles humourlessly. “Did you get tortured for thirty years, Cas?”

“No, but –”

“Have you ever tortured someone and _enjoyed_ it?” Dean interrupts. 

“Dean listen –” 

“Did you start the fucking _Apocalypse_?” 

“Dean, listen to me,” Castiel growls. “None of that is your fault.” 

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It _is_ my fault.”

Castiel hates that Dean believes that. “There is nothing I can say to you to make you believe me,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes from across the table. “But it’s _not_ your fault.”

“Then whose fault is it if it isn’t mine?” Dean asks, leaning forward and placing his hands flat on the table. 

“Not everything has someone responsible for it; some things simply happen.” 

Dean shakes his head. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Maybe so,” Castiel says, “But the point still remains. Who you were in Hell is not who you are as a person, Dean, and you cannot allow yourself to dwell on something that was in the past. And as for the Apocalypse? If we are going to blame someone for that then it would be God and Heaven.”

“But they’re trying to stop it,” Dean points out.

Castiel looks away. “No. They’re not. The angels wanted to bring about Armageddon. God, it seems, wants to prevent this, because otherwise he would not have interfered.”

“Wait, what?” Dean says, the volume of his voice suddenly rising. “The angels _want_ Lucifer free? _Why_?”

“They want paradise,” Castiel sighs. “When the archangel Michael descends and battles the Devil, he will win and half the planet will be wiped out in the process. Lucifer and Michael never were subtle about their affairs.” 

“And how exactly is half the planet dying _paradise_?”

“There will be no more sinners, and only the pure will be allowed to remain,” Castiel replies. He didn’t want to have to tell the Winchester’s about the angel’s involvement – only having recently discovered it himself – but some things are unavoidable. Anyhow, it’s hardly the biggest secret he currently holds.  

“That’s seriously fucked up,” Dean shakes his head. “So let me get this straight: you guys want to free the Devil just so Michael can pop him back in his box and kill several billion people at the same time?”

“Not me, but yes. That was Heaven’s general plan.”

“Wait, so if you wanted the seals to be broken why pull me out of Hell?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says honestly. “I was never high enough to be told such things; I received orders and I obeyed them. Angel’s don’t ask questions.” 

“You have no idea then?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “All I know is that the angel’s said ‘you would be needed later.’ Sorry, Dean.”

Dean purses his lips and nods. “Well that’s freaking brilliant. It’s always a good thing when Heaven has mysterious plans for you.”

“Had,” Castiel corrects.

“What?”

“ _Had_ plans for you. Any future that the angel’s planned will now never happen; first of all because God has returned and second of all because Sam no longer has the means to break the final seal.”

“Wait, so no Apocalypse?” Dean says.

Castiel tilts his head at Dean, contemplating him. “No. I thought you’d have realised this already,” he says after a moment. He had honestly believed that Dean would have jumped to this conclusion almost instantly upon hearing that Sam was supposed to be the one to break the final seal. 

“I guess my head hasn’t really been in the best place,” Dean admits. “So no Apocalypse, Sam is cured, God is back – even if he is a massive douche… that’s probably the best news we’ve had in ages.” Dean already seems genuinely happier. Castiel supposes that feeling that you are responsible for the impending End would weigh a person down. Even if Dean still believes that it was ‘his fault,’ then he can now let it go because, as he would say, the last domino will never be knocked over. 

“Tell me how you feel,” Castiel says again, hoping that this time Dean might answer him.

“D’you know what, Cas? I’m actually better than I was before,” he smiles, but then winces as it stretches his split-lip.

Castiel projects just enough healing magic towards Dean to fix his injuries, because it is only fair. He was the one who caused them in the first place; not to say that Dean didn’t deserve it, because he did. “Thanks,” Dean says, smiling again, this time not being hindered by any cuts, bruises or general other abrasions. “But this doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed at you, okay?” 

Castiel meets Dean’s eyes, and detecting his true meaning of _I forgive you_ , smiles as well. His mouth barely moves, but he knows Dean can see his understanding and, although it is an emotion he has rarely ever feels, _happiness_. 

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel could ask Dean for an apology as well, but he knows the older Winchester brother well enough to know that a verbal _I’m sorry_ is not his style. Anyway, Castiel can feel that he is regretful, and that is enough. He is just glad that Dean spoke to him, and he thinks Dean might be as well because his eyes are brighter than Castiel has seen them in maybe the whole time they have known each other. Castiel wouldn’t have thought that he’d be able to help, he has hardly had frequent opportunities through his life to practice consoling broken hunters, but as far as he can tell he _did_ and that means more than ‘I’m sorry’ ever would. 

But maybe Dean’s head works differently than he had thought, because he says, “By the way, Cas I didn’t mean those things I said.” He looks away and nervously licks his bottom lip. “I, uh… I need you around as well, okay? You’re kind of… you’re kind of important to me too.” 

This is obviously as close to ‘I’m sorry’ that Dean Winchester has ever got, and Castiel feels privileged and warm. He is glad that Dean is his friend again, because when they argue, he misses him more than he would like to admit. Until the next time (because there always is a next time), they are _okay_ and this is one of the many reasons why Castiel is glad.


	8. Chapter Seven

The thing about Dean is that he never just lets an argument go. He stews for days after, even if it has been officially resolved, contemplating why it’s all his fault and deciding exactly where he went wrong. So of course, Sam is slightly suspicious.

Castiel turned back up, him and Dean apparently had a heart-to-heart, and now Dean is back to his normal self (maybe minus as much drinking and porn, but that can only be a good thing). Last time Sam checked, Dean was angrier at Castiel than he was at Sam, or the angels, or maybe even _himself_. He would literally walk around the house muttering about killing the angel, which even for Dean is a new one. Sam understands that he and Castiel worked out whatever it is that was going on there, but it’s still just so… _surreal_.

If it were Sam, he would still be glaring at him when he thought his back was turned, and treating him like a toddler with behaviour issues, but right now, Dean is sitting on the sofa next to Cas discussing the intricacies of Lord of the Rings. 

“I don’t understand,” Cas says as the camera pans over the Shire, “The percentage of Hobbits all have light hair, but then that one –”

“Frodo,” Dean adds helpfully. 

“ – has dark hair. Does he have a mutated cistron?” 

Sam struggles to hold back a laugh at the horrified look on Dean’s face. “ _What_?” 

“A cistron,” Castiel says again. “A segment of DNA that’s involved in producing a polypeptide chain and is responsible for physical characteristics.”

“Dude, _English_ please,” Dean says, looking almost terrified at the use of scientific language. Sam could easily help, but it’s funny, so he won’t. 

“I am speaking English,” Castiel replies, looking confused.

“That wasn’t English,” Dean says. The movie has now been ignored all together, which doesn’t surprise Sam at all. Dean has never liked fantasy, even at the best of times. “That was fucking Science-Geek, which I don’t speak because I was too busy _having sex with women_ to learn about cist-whatever’s.” 

“Cistrons, Dean,” Cas says. “And I don’t see how fornicating with women would impair your ability to learn genetics.”

By this point Sam is red in the face from contained laughter. It’s good when Dean is happy, and for whatever reason Cas seems to be the thing that makes him happy, so Sam isn’t going to argue with that. 

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean mutters. “No, Frodo doesn’t have a mutated cist-whatever –”

“ _Cistron_ ,” Castiel says firmly.

“ _Cistron_ then,” Dean says, making his voice stupidly low as he says ‘cistron’ in what is obviously meant to be an impression of Cas. “No, Frodo doesn’t have a mutated _cistron_ he just has dark hair.”

“But it genetically improbable,” Castiel sounds genuinely concerned.

Dean groans and throws his head backwards, hitting it against the back of the sofa. Sam smiles and watches as they sit through the entire _Fellowship of the Ring_ , Castiel getting more and more confused as the film progresses, not understanding the ‘historical inaccuracies’ or the existence of hobbits or what Dean means when he calls Aragorn ‘badass’ or why all the elves are so ‘visually appealing’ when in fact elves are small, ugly and vicious creatures. Eventually, Dean gives up trying to explain and tells Cas to ‘shut up and enjoy the hot elf chick.’ Dean of course looks like he is about to cry from frustration when Cas asks why he cannot appreciate the male elves if he wants to, or the female hobbits, or even the scenery. Dean tells him he can appreciate whoever the fuck he wants as long as he stops asking stupid questions, but Sam can see that Dean likes it. 

Sam hasn’t seen Dean have this much fun in months, even if that fun is a result of watching a movie on Bobby’s worn-out sofa with an Angel of the Lord, and he is glad that his brother finally has a friend. Sam knows more than anyone that Dean can be a difficult person to get along with sometimes (or most of the time), so maybe what he needs in an angel who doesn’t understand what annoying is and doesn’t let Dean be an ass. Maybe Cas is exactly what Dean has needed this whole time. 

* * *

The next day and a half passes in a haze of television, cheap food and general _nothingness_. Dean hasn’t felt this relaxed or happy in years, and it’s fucking brilliant.

He still isn’t okay (not that he’s going to admit this to anyone any time soon), but he is as close as he’s going to get. Under strict orders from Cas (who swore he would tamper with the Impala if he didn’t), he spoke to Sam, and they’re okay; he apologised to Bobby for being – and he quotes – ‘a complete shit’ and basically, there is no friction between him and any of the people he cares about (which are, sadly enough, all in this house right now.) 

Usually, Dean would be jittery beyond belief – it’s been nearly two weeks since they worked a case – but he feels like they kinda deserve some time off. Sam just underwent operation demon-detox, and pretty much, the last few weeks have been utter horseshit all ‘round. First there was the Cas-incident, then the Sam-incident, then the extended-Sam-incident which led into another Cas-incident and a minor Bobby-incident, all of these part of a larger Dean-incident which then caused another Cas-incident, and Dean will be fucked if there are any more incidents this month. Once they have all recuperated properly, then they can get back to work and life will be back to normal (whatever the hell normal is for them, they’re Winchesters.) 

Dean is happy, and he has to say, it’s pretty freaking awesome. 

* * *

“You boys are probably gonna want to see this,” Bobby says a few hours later, walking into the lounge room, laptop in hand. 

Dean looks up from the television, which is playing some movie with a copious amount of car chases. “A case?” Dean asks, and unless Castiel is mistaken, it almost looks as if he is disappointed. 

“You could say that, I guess,” Bobby says, placing the computer on the coffee table in front of Dean and Castiel. 

Sam leans over the back of the sofa, craning his head so that he can better see the screen. “What is it?”

“Oroville, that’s what it is,” Bobby huffs.

Castiel sees Dean swallow nervously. “Look, no offense Bobby, but I really don’t want to see it,” he says, making a move to stand up. 

Castiel reaches out, grabbing Dean’s arm and pulling him back onto the sofa, earning him a pleased look from Bobby and a scowl from Dean. He understands that Dean doesn’t want to relive what happened in California in any way, and Bobby knows this full well, so it must be important. He has learnt to trust Bobby’s judgement. 

“You’re gonna want to see this, trust me,” Bobby says, leaning down and starting a video. 

A woman – presumably a news reporter going by her state of dress and the station-marked microphone in her hand – stands in front of a very familiar paddock. _“Kerry Wareham here,_ ” she says, “ _reporting from Oroville, California_.” 

Dean briefly meets Castiel’s eyes, and he can see how _scared_ the hunter is. Dean doesn’t want to hear this because – as far as he’s concerned – the annihilation of Oroville was entirely his fault. 

“ _The entire population of this sleepy, East Californian town, seemed to drop off the radar for approximately 11 days, before all returning with no memory at all of the last two and a half weeks.”_

The back of the sofa buckles as Sam leans forward more. “ _Dozens of different theories are circulating the town, everything from alien abduction, to government conspiracy to hallucinogens in the water supply. The state government are currently making no move to investigate further, writing this off as a hoax. If this_ is _a hoax, then it is on a scale of massive proportions, every citizen swearing that they don’t remember anything._

_“I am joined by Deputy Chief of Police, Margarite Baggery and local shop assistant and paranormal expert Jacob Brown. Ms Baggery, what do you have to say about this strange happening?”_

_“Well, Kerry_ ,” the Deputy says, a stern looking woman with greying-blonde hair and a muscular frame, “ _I wish I knew. We have no clue what is going on here, only that it’s something.”_

 _“It was demons,”_ Jacob Brown interrupts. 

Castiel meets Dean’s eyes, who looks somewhere between relieved, confused and worried. 

“ _And what is it that leads you to believe this Mr Brown?_ ” the reporter asks. 

The police deputy rolls her eyes. “ _Look, I can guarantee you that whatever is goin’ on here it aint got anything to do with demons or aliens or anything non-human. We don’t need people panicking, because there isn’t anything to panic about. We’re all safe, and the force is working on it. There aint no such thing as demons, Jacob_.”

“ _It’s the Apocalypse_ ,” the young man says, sounding scared. Castiel supposes that if he were in Jacob Brown’s position, just having been possessed, killed and raised from the dead, also lacking any concrete knowledge of the supernatural, then he would be scared as well. 

“ _The Apocalypse?_ ” the reporter asks. 

Jacob nods vigorously. “ _The Apocalypse. The whole Four Horseman and seas turning to blood and Lucifer rising. The Apocalypse. We were part of the plan.”_

 _“Jacob,”_ the deputy scolds, “ _I talked to you about this_.”

“ _It was demons, though_ ,” he reasserts. “ _They possessed us because they were going to raise the ghosts._ ”

“ _What is it that led you to believe this?”_  says the reporter. 

“ _Because I remember_ ,” he says. “ _No one else does. I remember. I died and then I was awake again inside my head, but I could feel myself being dead. I couldn’t control my body because there was something else in there with me, but I could feel it. We came here,”_ he gestures wildly around him, “ _and there was this big fight. There were all of us against these three men. They just looked like normal guys, but two of them were killing people with their mind. Then one of them – this scrawny guy in a trench coat – he did something to the really tall one and them_ POW,” he mimes an explosion with his arms, “ _the demons were all going and we were dead again. Do you know what they were?”_ he asks, pointing his finger at the reporter and deputy in turn. “ _They were angels. The third one, I don’t think he was an angel. If you ask me, he was a Nephilim.”_

 _“A Nephilim?”_ the reporter asks.

“ _Half-angel, half-human,”_ Jacob nods. “ _Everyone thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not I swear_. _I know what happened._ ”

Bobby leans down and closes the computer lid. “From there on out its just all bickering and Deputy _Margarite_ tellin’ everyone to stay calm” he says. 

“Can someone _please_ explain to me what’s going on?” Dean says. “They were all dead but now they’re not? And how does that Jacob guy remember? And what the fuck is a _Nephilim_?” 

“A Nephilim is a human-angel hybrid,” Castiel replies, this being the only question he readily has the answer to. “In the early days, before the dangers were known, many angels bred with humans, creating a third race of divine warriors, much weaker than angels, but universes stronger than humans. After the hazards became evident, human-angel relationships were banned.” 

“And why did he think I was a fucking angel-child or whatever?” 

Castiel tilts his head. “You do seem somewhat majestic in battle,” he replies, thinking of the way Dean had fought in Oroville. He had been violent, bloody and ruthless, but majestic nonetheless. 

“I’m not…” Dean shakes his head, leaving an unsaid _majestic_ hanging in the air. “But none of that explains anything about fucking _anything_ ,” he says, slumping backwards. “Seriously, what the fuck?” 

Bobby shakes his head. “I’ll be damned if I know. I thought you idjits might have a clue what just happened. Castiel, you’re an angel; heard anything about bringin’ back an entire town lately?”

Castiel shakes his head, not mentioning that he can no longer hear Heaven very clearly. He will hears snippets of conversation, a random word, flashes of imagery, but nothing to give him a clear idea what is happening. “I don’t know. Something of this scale, it would take immense power.”

“Do you think it could be God?” Sam asks. 

“It is probable, considering His recent return.”

“But I thought God stopped giving a crap what happens on Earth,” Dean says.

“Well it looks like He changed His mind,” Bobby says, “and if I were you I’d stop bitchin’ about His intentions, because whatever happened, fourteen-thousand people are alive because of it, so it can only be a good thing.”

“Bobby is right,” Castiel replies. “The chances are that it was God. I don’t know the reasons behind His actions. After all,” Castiel feels the corners of his mouth twist up in a humourless smile, “God works in mysterious ways.” 

“Be that as it may,” Sam says, not noticing the bitterness in Castiel’s voice. “I still don’t understand why that one guy – Jacob Brown I think it was – remembers it all and no one else does. It wasn’t just the demon part though – he could have easily seen black smoke and demon signs before being possessed, and the reporter said he was a paranormal expert, so he could have put the signs together – but he remembers the details. He remembers the fight, and us, down to the point that he could _describe us_. Except for the angel and Nephilim part, he got everything right.” 

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “He is not a prophet or in any way associated with Heaven, because I would recognise his name. I don’t know what Jacob Brown is. Maybe he was just lucky.” 

Castiel is beyond glad that the town has been restored, because not only is that 13,666 lives saved, but it is also a great weight off of Dean’s shoulders. 

“We should go back to Oroville,” Sam says. “Put on our suits, get out our FBI badges and see what people are saying.”

Dean shrugs and stands up, and Castiel follows. “So what’d you say Cas? Want to save us another cross-country drive and zap us there?” 

Castiel blinks. “Just you?” he asks after a moment. He knows what Dean’s response is going to be, but a tiny part of him hopes otherwise. He knows he doesn’t have the strength to fly them there; not all four of them. He isn’t that powerful anymore. 

“Uh, no,” Dean says slowly. “‘Us’ generally means me, you, Sam and Bobby, if he wants to come.”

“Like hell I am,” Bobby adds. 

Castiel can’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I can’t,” he says quietly.

“What’d you mean you can’t? You’re an angel,” Dean reminds him, sounding confused. 

Castiel knows that this is it. He has no choice but to tell them now; there are no more lies or half-truths that can be put in place. Once again, Dean is going to hate him, and he will be alone. The Winchesters – being as stubbornly loyal as they are – will rip the planet in half trying to find a cure, and in the process either kill themselves, kill Castiel or somehow destroy the earth, the latter, although improbable, not being a far reach for the Winchester brothers.  

Castiel lets his eyes flicker back to Dean, just for a second, but long enough to see his confusion and doubt. There is a heavy pause, before Castiel says, “I’m falling, Dean,” feeling his voice waver. “I’m falling from Heaven.”  

* * *

Dean stares at Castiel. Bobby stares at Castiel. Sam stares at Castiel. Castiel stares at the floor. 

Dean for one, has no idea what just happened, and fucking prays to God (or whoever it is they are supposed to pray to these days) that he heard wrong. He really fucking hopes he heard wrong, because for once, everything was good; he was happy. But he _is_ Dean Winchester, so it’d go figure that his best friend is fucking dying or _worse_. “You what?” 

Cas looks up, only briefly looking at Dean before obviously deciding he _can’t_ and turning his eyes toward the wall. “I’m falling,” he says again. 

Dean feels his hands curl into fists. “What the fuck does that _mean_?”

“It means,” Castiel says, finally meeting Dean’s eyes (which actually doesn’t help at all, because Dean’s head is still a cacophony of drawn out _fuck_ s), “that I am going to become human.”

“ _How_?” Dean asks, maybe starting to panic a little. “I thought falling was just a thing that happened straight away. Like with Anna. She just became a baby and lived as a human, didn’t she?” Apart from Lucifer (who isn’t really a capital example), Anna is – or was – the only fallen angel Dean knows. It seems that any angel who isn’t a complete dick isn’t allowed to be an angel anymore. Well… then there is Lucifer, but the Devil doesn’t count at the moment. 

“That _is_ the usual process,” Cas says, “but this isn’t a usual circumstance. Or at least, not according to God.” 

“So it was God who did this to you?” Sam asks, who at some point between ‘hey, let’s all fly happily back to the somehow not dead demon town’ and ‘ _I’m falling, Dean_ ’ moved around the sofa to stand next to Bobby. Dean isn’t sure when that happened, but he does know that he kind of _really_ hates God at the moment. That’s A-grade blasphemy or whatever, but he doesn’t give a fuck. Just because He’s God doesn’t give Him the right to be an ass. 

“Yes,” Cas replies flatly. “I disobeyed Him and was punished.” 

Dean doesn’t know how he can be so _calm_ about this. Cas could be discussing the fucking weather for all the fear or worry or _emotion_ that his face shows. Dean is a mix of panic and anger and hatred and _fuck_. “This is because of _us_?” Dean asks. Castiel is losing his grace and its Dean fault. Just when he thought the List of Things That Are Dean Winchester’s Fault was getting smaller, too. Crap. 

“It’s not your fault, Dean,” Cas says, which yeah, helps _so_ fucking much. “I couldn’t have killed you. I couldn’t have _let_ you be killed, even if it was another angel sent to do the job. It was inevitable.”

“And now you’re freaking falling, Cas. Why didn’t you tell us? We asked if something was going on and you _lied_ to us. We could’ve helped!” Dean is starting to feel less panic and more anger and _fuck_. It seems to be a constant stream of lies and betrayal and half-truths when it comes to everyone Dean cares about. First it was Sam, and now it’s Cas. They both hid freaking colossal things from him – things that he could have _helped_ with. Sam’s secret ended in disaster, so Dean can’t help feeling that Cas’ will too. 

“That is exactly why, Dean,” Cas narrows his eyes. “You can’t help me, and I don’t want you to try.”

Dean takes a step forward, glaring at the angel, or semi-angel, or whatever the freaking hell he is. “What does that mean?” he snarls. “ _What does that mean_?” 

Cas takes a step forward as well, and now there is virtually no space between them. “It means,” he growls, and Dean feels like he is about to be thrown against the wall again in another fit of angel-rage, “that there is nothing you can do. I am falling, I am going to become human, and it is unpreventable. There is no magical cure, and even if you found another angel willing to help you, _they couldn’t fix this_. God did this to me Dean, which means it’s final.” 

“We can try,” Dean says through gritted teeth. It’s his job to help. He has spent his entire live saving people, killing the things that go bump in the night so that Generic Civilian of the Day can go on living their picket-fence life. He has come close so many times to sacrificing his life for people he doesn’t even know, and so when it comes to the people he _does_ know, it’s a whole different story. He went to Hell for Sam, and he’d do it again in a heart-beat. Cas isn’t Dean’s family, but fuck it all, he cares about the stupid son of a bitch more than he’s comfortable with. 

“No, you can’t. I won’t let you,” Cas says. “You will just end up getting yourselves killed and for _nothing_. There is _nothing_ you can do,” his voice cracks at the end, the first sign of actual emotion Dean has seen him have during this whole _falling_ conversation. Maybe he is more scared than he is letting on. Fuck, _of course_ he is more scared than he’s letting on. He’s losing everything. 

“You still lied to us,” Dean says. “And don’t give me that _there’s nothing you can do_ crap, because there’s always something.” He feels like he is about to punch Cas, hug him or _cry_ , but doesn’t because he has learnt that option one will never end well and options two and three are not things Dean Winchester does. He was getting better though. He was finally okay, and now the world is fucking crashing down around his ears again. 

“Not this time,” Cas says. 

“ _There’s always something_ ,” Dean stares into Cas’ eyes, and he needs to believe it. He needs to hope that there is a way they can fix this, because he doesn’t think he can cope with another incident of this magnitude. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says, even though Dean knows that _he_ should be the one apologising. Then the angel goes and does what he does best and fucking vanishes without so much as a goodbye, leaving Sam and Bobby speechless and Dean broken yet again. 


	9. Chapter Eight

Dean is adamant that he is not going to let Cas’ disappearance and stupid problem keep him from doing his job. So, because he needs to ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ and all that crap, he drags Sam away from Bobby’s house as soon as they have packed, Sam telling Bobby to see what he can dig up on angel grace and Dean trying to look like he doesn’t give a fuck (because he really, really does.)  

Dean doesn’t even bother to double-check that they have all of their clothes and weapons and fake-credentials (because after living a life on the road he knows how to pack properly goddamn it) before hopping behind the wheel of the Impala, turning up Mötorhead as loud as he can without bursting his eardrums and driving off, barely giving Sam enough time to jump in the passenger seat. He drives until nearly midnight, the entire time pretending he can’t hear Sam when he tries to talk to him, and then checks into the first motel he finds, throws himself down on his bed and ignores the world. Sleep doesn’t come easy. 

The nightmares are worse tonight. When he finally drifts off, he is soon jolted awake by imagined screams and memories of blood and torture. But unlike every other night, the images of Hell are joined by a stupid angel in a stupid trench-coat, sitting in the middle a fire, his skin bubbling of and saying ‘I’m sorry, Dean’ over and over again. Dream-Dean tries to run to him, but invisible forces pull him back every time. Eventually, Dream-Cas tries to spread his wings, and they are massive and white and hurt Dream-Dean’s eyes to look at, but then before he can fly away they are burnt off. Dream-Dean turns his eyes towards the sky and sees a faceless figure sitting on a cloud. He has a beard and robes and looks like every Sunday-school picture of God Dean has ever seen, but then his face comes into focus and he is John Winchester. _“You’ve failed again, Dean_ ,” he booms. “ _You’ve failed Sammy, you’ve failed your angel and you’ve failed me. You were supposed to look after them, Dean. YOU FAILED!”_ And then Dream-John explodes in a burst of white light and Dream-Dean closes his eyes, but Dream-Cas, maybe forgetting his isn’t an angel anymore, doesn’t. Dream-Dean opens his lids just in-time to see the former-angel’s eyes explode – not burn as they would in real-life, but _pop_ out of his skull – and then Dream-Dean in drowning in an ocean of blue the colour of Castiel’s eyes.

Dean feels his dream-self die, and then jolts awake, disgusting and sticky with sweat, and all around feeling like he just sprinted ten miles. He looks over to see Sam sleeping peacefully in his bed, the lucky bastard, not having nightmares about every stupid thing ever. Dean can’t fall asleep again after that last nightmare, because his body seems to be 100% sure that he is about to be attacked, refusing to relax and shut down, even though he rationally knows that he’s safe. Or relatively safe anyway. As safe as one gets when one’s a hunter on the run from every bad thing in the fucking universe. 

The nightmares suck even when they’re just about Hell, because Hell was _hell_ , but it’s so much worse when everything Dean feels guilty about and fears joins in and has a Lets Torture Dean’s Subconscious party. Dream-John was right; Dean has failed. He’s failed everyone. He thought he was doing okay with Sam, but then Sam got addicted to fucking demon-blood and nearly _died_. He thought he was doing okay with Cas, but now Cas is losing his grace and will probably die. He thought he was doing what John had asked of him – look after Sammy, save people, kill every supernatural son of a bitch he came across – but he hasn’t done any of that; if he had then what happened with Sam wouldn’t have happened. There wouldn’t have been a Ruby, which means there would have been no demon-blood. If he had, then they wouldn’t have had to rely on some dick calling Himself God to save all those people.

If he had, then Cas would still be an angel.

Dean isn’t sure how the whole falling from Heaven thing is working with Cas. Maybe he’s like a battery, and once his juice is gone he’s useless, or maybe he’s on a time limit, or maybe it’s like the seal’s breaking and each human act leads him one step closer to the edge. Dean doesn’t know. He is pretty sure however, that Cas can’t have long. 

He _needs_ to find a cure for Falling, Capital-F, because Dean imagines that turning from an angel to a human would be similar to turning from a human to speck of dust. Honestly, Dean can’t even imagine. 

Cas was right when he said that Dean would be willing to sacrifice himself for this because, as he sees it, Cas has saved him more than once and so it’s his duty to return the favour. Dean is a lot of things – angry, self-hating, violent – but he is, above all else, loyal to the people who matter, and for some reason that he doesn’t quite understand, Cas matters.

***

The next day passes in much the same manner: Dean wakes up, packs, drags Sam into the Impala, avoids all communication, drives, finds a motel, checks in and doesn’t sleep. 

It isn’t until the 21st – three days after the most recent Cas-incident (the one where he is apparently falling from fucking Heaven in case there was any confusion) – that anything even remotely different happens. Dean has hardly spoken to Sam at all since they left Bobby’s, only discussing the case and the facts and turning up his music at the mere mention of _feelings_ or _Castiel_ , because he plans to keep internalising everything. Sam would say it isn’t healthy and that he should talk and blah, blah, psychology crap, but so far lots of alcohol and stony silence has worked for him. He isn’t a ‘feelings’ person.

They are pulled over at a road-side rest stop, Sam off relieving himself, when Bobby calls.

“Bobby,” Dean says into the phone.

“ _So I’ve been doin’ some research about angel grace,”_ Bobby says in place of a greeting. 

Dean sighs and leans back against the hood of the Impala. “Do tell.” 

“ _There ain’t very much_ to _tell_ ,” Bobby replies. “ _I’ve done nothin’ but dig – lore books, the bible, the internet, you name it, and I’ve come up with a big pile of zilch on how to get it back.”_

“So you don’t have _anything_?” 

“ _Hold on I didn’t say I had nothing,”_ Bobby grumbles. “ _From what I can establish, grace is pretty much energy. It’s what gives the angels their mojo, as well as being kinda like their soul.”_

“So if Cas loses his grace he’ll lose his soul?” Dean asks.

“ _If you let me finish I’d get to that. Now I can’t find much on it, seems that grace is a fairly hush-hush concept, but looks like it’s more the_ pure _part of their soul. So without their grace, angels are just normal humans.”_

“So… yes soul?” Dean clarifies. He isn’t even sure what human souls _do_ but he is pretty sure that not having one would be very, very bad. 

“ _Theoretically, if an angel falls, then they’ll still have a soul but just not grace. It’ll be converted or somethin’, so just no power or purity. As well as givin’ them their wings, the grace is what stops them from needing to sleep or eat or do any human things_.”

Dean nods, but then realises that Bobby can’t actually see him, because there is half a country separating them. It’s habit. “You keep mentioning that. Their purity? Is that like eternal virginity or…?”  

“ _If you want to look at it that way, then sure. But it’s virginity from all sin, not just your kind,”_ Bobby says with a snort. “ _Like I said, stops them from needing to do human stuff, and_ wanting _to do human stuff, so an angel with grace isn’t gonna_ want to _disobey God or sin.”_

Dean had understood, but now he’s just confused again. “But Cas disobeyed God and he still had his… _grace_.” 

“ _He must care a hell of a lot about you boys then,”_ Bobby says. So not only is Cas falling, but he also went against his entire self to save them? Fucking hell Dean is in over his head. 

“So you haven’t found anything yet about how to get it back?” Dean asks.

“ _You know just as much about grace as I do now_ ,” Bobby says. “ _Maybe even more since you were there with that Anna girl. I dunno how Castiel’s grace is being leeched from him, so I’m ‘fraid I can’t do anything else. You’ll need to get him to tell you more if you want to help him.”_

Dean snorts. Unless Cas suddenly changes his mind completely – which is about as likely as him and Sam having a year without nearly dying and/or ending the world – Dean isn’t going to get a lick of information from him. “You heard him Bobby. He doesn’t want our help.”

“ _And when has that ever stopped you_?” Bobby says. 

Dean smiles. “Keep looking, alright?” he says. There has to be something out there, and if anyone can find it, then it’d be Bobby.

“ _That’s what I’m here for_ ,” Bobby says, and Dean can’t actually tell whether he’s being sarcastic or not. It being Bobby and all, he is going to assume its sarcasm until proven otherwise. 

“Thanks Bobby.”

“ _By the way, how are you holdin’ up,”_ Bobby says, and the smile drops from Dean’s face instantly. 

“I’m fine,” he says quickly and then hangs up before Bobby can tell him that that’s bullshit (because it is). He taps his closed cell-phone against his knee, and realises that maybe hanging up wasn’t such a brilliant idea, because it probably confirmed to Bobby that he isn’t actually doing too great.

Fuck, Dean doesn’t understand why, but he needs Cas back. He hates it so much, but he needs the son of a bitch as much as he needs Sam, and at the moment, Dean would just rather have him, angel or not. 

* * *

Castiel’s been away from the Winchesters for three days, back to his aimless and lonely wanderings, when the demons find him. There are nine of them, Castiel can see their real faces behind their human masks. He had been walking along an empty street in Denver, simply watching the snow and thinking, when there were suddenly hands grabbing him and pulling him into a side alley. 

He manages to shove one demon off, but then there are two more taking its place and pinning him against the wall. They hold down his hands, preventing him from summoning his sword or smiting them. All he can do is glare and try fruitlessly to push them off. 

“What’s the matter, angel,” one of them says, her true-face not dissimilar to that of a canine’s behind the petite features of the woman she wears, “too many of us for you?” Her human-face is full of fake pity, but Castiel can see her grinning. “You could be very useful," she snarls. “Our very own _little slice of Heaven_ to do with as we wish.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Castiel says, meeting her eyes. A flicker of doubt momentarily washes over her face, but then she is back to scowling at him. 

“You’re an angel, angel,” she says, curling her hand around his throat. “You’re Heaven’s bitch and _just_ what we need.” 

Castiel almost laughs. “I’m not associated with Heaven,” he says bitterly. 

She tightens her grip on his throat, and Castiel counts it lucky that he still does not need to breathe, because otherwise he would be close to dead. “You’re lying,” she says, but Castiel can see her hesitate. “All angels are connected to Heaven.”

Castiel glares and she pushes him back again, his head hitting hard against the brick wall. He winces at the impact and feels blood trickle down the back of his head, but the pain is superficial.

“Look at him,” another one of the demons says after a moment, eyes wide. “Look at him, he isn’t an angel. Not a full one anyway.” 

The woman-demon looks him up and down and then grins. “A half-angel with not enough juice to fight us but enough knowledge of Heaven. This is brilliant. Oh, this is a fucking God-send,” she says, letting out an icy laugh. “Or, well, maybe not a God-send, but you get the picture.”

She pulls back, and Castiel begins to struggle again, but then her fist is flying and his jaw is broken. A heeled-boot kicks his stomach, and he tries to double over, but hands are pinning him in place.

“You’re pathetic,” she says. “You can’t even smite a few demons.” Her fists hit his face again, twice for each hand. This pain is something new. It is wholly physical, and so should not hurt him. He should not feel it because this skin is merely a vessel, a human body that he should be able to heal at will, the injuries being depthless. It is a sign of how powerless he is becoming that an onslaught of punches and kicks hurt almost as much as a direct attack to his grace would. 

“No,” he says, spitting out blood. “But I can still do this.” Not giving the demons a chance to brace themselves, he gives his wings corporeality. To humans, they would be invisible, but demons are creatures of Hell, and just as he can see their true form they can see his. His wings spread outwards from his back and knock down the demons holding him. He spins around and sends three more flying, summoning his sword as he does. He feels a knife rip into his left appendage, and almost cries out in pain, but keeps fighting, slashing and hitting until all nine demons lay dead on the ground.

His knees buckle under him, and he struggles to stay upright. He leans against the wall of the alley for support and lets his wings fade back into their metaphysical form. His vision is blurry and his entire being – both his grace and vessel – throb with a startling urgency. Before he collapses, as he can feel he is going to, he forces his wings back out and flies toward Dean, letting his instinct guide him. 

* * *

“HOLY FUCK,” Dean yells as a figure materialises in the middle of the highway, falling to the ground even before it’s fully _there_. He swerves the Impala (which isn’t good for her, but by the looks of it said figure is wearing a trench-coat so _holy fuck_ ) so as to miss it, slamming his foot down on the brake. 

“Is that _Cas_ ,” Sam says, jumping out of the car at the same time as Dean, who is kind of _freaking the absolute fuck out right now_. 

Dean nods and runs forward, rolling Cas over and gasping at the blood covering his face. His left eye is swollen shut, his jaw looks broken and basically, he looks like shit. “Jesus,” Dean whispers, feeling for a pulse and sighing with relief when he finds one. He will repeat though: holy fuck, Jesus Christ, shit, fuck, shit.

“Is he conscious?” Sam asks, who is frantically digging around the trunk for a first-aid kit, which for all Dean knows will do absolutely nothing to fix a semi-Angel of the dickbag-Lord.  

Cas’ eyelids flicker, but don’t quite open. “Barely,” Dean says, feeling Cas’ pulse again and beginning to panic. If he were a human, and if he knew how the fuck this happened, he could help, but Cas is a falling angel and for all Dean knows Godzilla could have done this. “C’mon, leave the first aid kit. Help me get him into the car; we need to find a motel.” 

Dean grabs Cas under the arms and hoists him up, and then gasps again at the sight of blood on the back of his head. “Fuck,” he says. 

“Should we take him to a hospital?” Sam asks, ever reasonable and rational and fucking calm (which isn’t fair), grabbing Castiel’s legs and helping Dean move him to the backseat of the Impala.

“He’s an angel, Sam. A hospital isn’t going to help.” Who knows how angel’s work? Cas might not even be hurt because of the flesh wounds; it could be his mojo that’s taken the hit. A bunch of human doctors are going to do fuck-all to help. 

“How bad’s his head?” Sam asks, his eyebrows furrowed.

“If he were a human, I’d be more worried, but even then I don’t think it’d kill him. I don’t think it’s his head that’s the problem, Sammy,” Dean says, wincing nonetheless as Cas’ head hits against the seat.

“His grace?” Sam asks.

“I have no fucking idea,” Dean says, closing the door and jumping back behind the wheel. “But either way I can see it’s not good.”

Sam hops in the passenger seat and Dean drives. If Cas dies now, Dean is going to kill him. 

***

“What’d you know about grace injuries?” Dean says into the phone two hours later when they are semi-comfortably holed up in a motel just off of the California border.

“ _Hello, to you as well_ ,” Bobby grumbles. “ _What’d you mean grace injuries?_ ”

“I mean injuries to fucking angel grace. As in Cas looks completely okay on the outside now but is still unconscious and barely breathing injuries.” 

“ _Tell me what happened_ ,” Bobby says after a beat, and Dean can hear the rustle of paper’s through the phone. 

“’Bout two hours ago we were driving and then Cas appeared in the middle of the fucking road looking like he went fifty rounds with Bruce Lee, his head all bashed in and covered in blood and stuff, but then by the time we found a motel he was completely healed on the outside, but still unconscious, and like I said, barely even breathing,” Dean says, glancing over to the angel sprawled out on one of the beds. “Me and Sam think it must be his grace.” 

“ _D’you know what happened to him?_ ” 

“No! Don’t you think if I knew I would have fucking said so,” Dean snaps, not even sure why he’s angry, just knowing that he sure as hell is. 

“ _Hey, calm down_ ,” Bobby says. “ _It’s your angel I’m trying to help here, Dean._ ”

“He’s not my angel,” Dean says, tempted to throw something. “So d’you know anything or not?” He can see Sam giving him a ‘stop being angry you’re just making things worse’ face from across the room, but ignores him because he can be angry if he goddamn wants to. 

“ _That’d be not_ ,” Bobby says. “ _It’s only been a few hours since I talked to you last, and I still have close to bupkis. I’ll keep lookin’, but I’m sorry Dean, I dunno how to help you except to say wait it out.”_

For the second time that day, Dean hangs up on Bobby. He knows it’s rude, but he’s really, really, _really_ angry. Sam would probably say that that anger is a product of worry and hopelessness and self-loathing, but it’s easier just to be angry, and so he is. For the second time in as many weeks, someone he cares about is unconscious and close to death, so he thinks he has a right. 

* * *

Everything is black and then suddenly Castiel is awake. 

“Cas!” a familiar voice says. Dean, he realises after a moment; it’s Dean. 

“Dean.” He sits up, feeling his grace thrum uncomfortably inside him. “Demons.” He presses a hand to the hunter’s chest and then once again, everything is black. 

***

When Castiel wakes up for the second time, he estimates that nearly twenty-four hours have passed since he first fell unconscious. 

“Cas,” Dean says, standing up and walking over from the other side of the room. “You gonna pass out on us again?” 

Castiel tilts his head and thinks for a moment. His grace is weaker than it should be, but that is more a side-effect of falling than his run in with the demons. His flesh-injuries have healed and his grace is no longer sore. “I don’t believe so,” he says. 

Dean grabs a dining chair and sits down next to the foot of Castiel’s bed. “So what happened?” he asks, leaning forward. “You just turned up looking like you had a run in with a monster truck.”

“Some demons found me,” Castiel answers. “They were…” his eyes flicker upwards to briefly meet Dean’s, “they were strong.”

“How many were there?” Sam asks from the small motel kitchen. Castiel hadn’t noticed him before now. 

“Nine.”

Dean blows air out through his teeth and smiles humourlessly. “And to think you were smiting truck-loads of them only a few weeks ago,” he says, and Castiel feels a stab of emotion, somewhere between anger and hurt. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” Castiel says bitterly. 

Dean meets his eyes, suddenly looking sad.  The hunter licks his lips and sighs, letting his gaze slide away from the angel. “Let us help you, Cas,” he says, sullen and quiet and so dissimilar to the angry, snarky man of a few seconds ago.

“You can’t help me, Dean,” Castiel says. If there were a way, then he _would_ tell Dean, but there isn’t. He _can’t_ be helped, as much as he or Dean or Sam wants him to be. Even if just for Dean’s sake, he wishes that there was something that could be done. Castiel can see how guilty he feels. 

“There has to be a way, Cas,” Dean says, and he looks so hopeless that it physically hurts Castiel to see. “Just tell us what we can do and we’ll work something out.”

“There is _nothing_ you can do, Dean,” Castiel stands up, and so does Dean. “I’m sorry.”

Dean runs a hand over his face, smiling sadly. “Why are you apologising?” He shakes his head.

“Because you feel guilty, and you shouldn’t.”

“This is my fault, Cas!” Dean yells, but he doesn’t sound angry, just sad and broken. 

“Stop blaming yourself for everything, Dean,” Castiel says, moving forward and looking into the hunter’s eyes. 

“ _There has to be something_ ,” he says. “There’s always something. Just… Jesus, Cas, there has to be.”

Castiel knows that Dean won’t ever believe otherwise. He will continue to search for a way to fix this long after Castiel’s three months are up, and so Castiel decides that he needs to show him. He presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead and sends him his emotions, his surety on this matter, all the information about angel grace he knows. Dean’s eyelids shut as the onslaught on images and sensations overwhelm him. 

Finally, Castiel withdraws his hand and Dean slowly opens his eyes. “That was…” his voice is dry and croaky. He coughs to clear his throat and then says, “What was that?”

“Everything I know about grace and about what is happening to me.”

“Why?” Dean asks, looking frankly confounded.

“Because I need you to stop trying,” Castiel says, looking away from Dean. “You can see now that there is no way to help, and so I need you to stop looking. Please.”

Dean moves his head so that once again he’s looking into Castiel’s eyes. “I’m never going to stop trying,” he says, and he sounds so earnest, so remorseful, that for the first time in his life, Castiel understands what humans mean when they speak of a heart breaking. 


	10. Chapter Nine

“You know what?” Sam says the next morning as they pack up the motel room, double and triple checking that they left no trace of anything even vaguely suspicious or serial-killery around.

“Enlighten me,” Dean replies, re-folding the last of his shirts and shoving them into his duffel bag. For once they aren’t in any hurry, so he may as well take his time and do this shit properly (by ‘shit’ he means packing, by ‘folding’ he means screwing up and by ‘properly’ he means like absolute crap.) 

“Screw Oroville,” Sam says, and Dean has to stop for a second to make sure he heard right.

“Is robo-cop actually suggesting we don’t finish a case that we started or do my ears deceive me?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

Sam shrugs. “What’s there for us though? What do we even _need_ to learn that we don’t already know? We know that it was God who brought them back.”

Sam does have a point. “There’s that Jacob kid,” Dean reminds him.

“So? I doubt he’s going to have any idea why he remembers,” Sam says. 

Dean squints at Sam. “Ok then, say we don’t go. What’re we gonna do instead? Drive half-way across the country for a different case?” To be honest, Dean doesn’t really want to go back to Oroville either; bad memories and all that, but it’s their duty. 

Sam shuffles awkwardly in his seat. “Come on, princess, spit it out,” Dean says, earning him an infamous Sam Winchester Bitch-Face. 

“I was thinking maybe we could go back to Bobby’s,” Sam says after a beat.

“Why?” They just drove half a country _from_ Bobby’s, and now Sam wants to drive back across said half-of-country to go back? The logic there is freaking flawless.

Sam coughs and looks even more like an awkwardly constipated moose, before saying, “I was thinking we could have Christmas again.”

Dean lets out a strangled chuckle. “Dude, it isn’t even December.” He is pretty damn sure it’s only October or November or something. And besides, even if it was Christmas, last year was an exception to another of the all mighty Winchester Commandments: _Dean Winchester does not celebrate Christmas because Dean Winchester art a complete Grinch._

Cas – who up until this point had just been sitting helpfully on the bed doing fuck knows what – frowns and looks at Dean. “Dean, it’s the 23rd of December,” he says. 

Dean thinks for a moment and counts the months since he got back from Hell on his fingers. There was that month there, and then there might have been a few more after that, and possibly one there (but possibly not)… fuck it, he has no idea what the date is. It probably is Christmas. That’d explain all the tinselly, jingly ads on television.

“I knew that,” he clarifies. 

Sam gives him a condescending you’re-a-complete-idiot look before saying, “I just thought I’d be nice to have Christmas. It was good last year, and this time we can do it properly. Bobby can chop down a tree, and we can get each other presents and,” Sam shrugs, “I dunno, do whatever hunters do on Christmas.” 

“Hunters don’t do Christmas, Sammy, that’s the point.”

“Why not,” Cas interjects, looking like a grumpy, confused toddler, which if Dean is 100% honest is kind of hilarious. 

“Because we’re busy killing things,” Dean says. “I’m pretty sure demons and vamps don’t stop to whip up eggnog and go carolling.” Dean almost shudders at the thought of monster eggnog and singing and Christmas traditions. Now he can practically see a bunch of vamps going carolling and then making human-blood-nog from their victims and decorating their tree with intestine-tinsel. Holy fuck, his life is messed up. 

“But there are plenty of other hunters out there,” Sam argues. “Why can’t we take a few days off to have some fun?”

“Because we don’t _do_ fun. We work, and if fun finds us then fuck yeah, we’ll take it, but we don’t actively seek it out, _because we’re hunters_ ,” Dean says, pointing his finger at Sam with the last few words. 

Sam scowls at him and turns to Cas. “What’d you say Cas,” he asks, suddenly all bright and cheery. “Have you ever had a Christmas before?” 

Cas frowns. “I was there at the birth of Christ.” Dean snorts and almost chokes on his laughter, which he is trying really hard to contain, because he knows laughing at Cas will just earn him more Sam Winchester Bitch-Faces. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Sam says. “So would you _like_ to have a Christmas?”

Cas thinks for a moment, and then nods. “I believe it’d be a good experience.”

Sam turns back to Dean, spreading his arms in an ‘I got the angel to agree to you can say no if you really want to, but I know you won’t because he’s your angel’ gesture. 

Dean is going to prove Sammy wrong, because a) Cas isn’t _his_ angel and b) _Christmas_ , really? “No,” he says firmly. 

“I would really like to celebrate Christmas with you, Dean,” Cas says, giving Dean puppy-dog eyes that could rival Sam’s, probably not even knowing he’s doing it. And then Sam joins in with the ‘you just killed all my hopes and dreams you monster’ look and Dean knows he’s fucked. 

“Fine,” he says, glaring at his brother and Cas, both of whom currently remind him of freaking children. “But it don’t mean I’m gonna like it.”

So they pack up, load the Impala and head back towards South Dakota, to apparently have a Winchester-Singer-Angel-of-the-Lord combined Christmas party. Dean isn’t even sure what his life is any more. 

***

“Guess what,” Dean says into the phone later that day, his tone laced with false-excitement.  Sam has run into the grocery store to get toothpaste and driving food, and Cas sits silently in the back seat staring at Dean, because he’s kinda creepy like that. 

“ _Well I’m guessing that your angel is okay,_ ” Bobby replies gruffly, and Dean ignores the ‘your angel’ part, because _Cas is not his angel_. Dean only just remembered that he didn’t call Bobby to let him know that Cas is okay; he’s probably been researching how to ‘fix grace injuries’ for the last twenty-four hours. But then again, the more they know about grace the better, because there might be something out there that Cas didn’t know (which Dean understand is about as likely as there being a book out there that knows more about his left hand than he does, but stranger things have happened.) 

“Uh, yea,” Dean replies somewhat guilty, “he woke up yesterday.”

“ _And you didn’t think to tell me this?_ ” 

“Sorry. But if it helps, I’m pretty much a walking encyclopaedia about grace now.”

“ _What?”_   Bobby asks, and Dean can practically see his classic-Bobby ‘ _what’re ya on about ya idjit_ ’ look. 

“Cas did this freaky _memory transfer_ thing and now I have all of his knowledge and feelings about grace swimming around in my head.” It’s the weirdest thing, though. Dean remembers things that happened before humans were even _created_. It kind of feels like watching it on TV opposed to actually living it, a memory of someone else’s memory, but it’s still fucking disconcerting. It’s also pretty dispiriting because even with however many millennia of angel-knowledge, Dean still doesn’t have a clue how to fix Cas. 

“ _Anything about gettin’ it back?_ ” 

Dean glances at Cas in the rear-view mirror. “No. Cas doesn’t know anything.”

“ _Well that’s convenient_ ,” Bobby huffs. “ _So what’d you ring me for in the first place?_ ”

“Oh, right,” Dean had forgotten about Sam’s plan for a moment. “Sam and Cas want to have Christmas.”

Dean is expecting a sarcastic comeback or a snort, so is surprised when Bobby says, “ _Well it’s no wonder they do_.”

“ _What_?” Dean asks sharply. 

“ _Well apart from last year – and I don’t think that really counts for much – Sam hasn’t ever had a proper family Christmas, and I’m guessing Cas hasn’t either._ ”

“But I just want our lives to be back to normal, Bobby, and Christmas doesn’t fit the bill,” Dean is aware that for them, ‘normal’ isn’t a thing (they hunt monsters for fucks sake), but he doesn’t want everything to start changing just because he went to Hell, or because Cas suddenly turned up. Cas is great and all, and he wouldn’t want it any other way, but he doesn’t want their lives to suddenly turn into some bad family drama. 

“ _Your life ain’t ever gonna be normal, boy_ ,” Bobby says. “ _You’re hunters, you went to Hell, your best friend is an_ angel _; I dunno how much further away from normal you could get._ ”

“You know what I mean” Dean sighs.

“ _Yeah, I do. You want your life to be the same as it used to be, before you took your trip downstairs and before you even knew angels existed, but that ain’t gonna happen. Why not celebrate Christmas, it’s not gonna kill you.”_

Dean doesn’t know how to say what he feels. Deep inside him, he aches for a normal, apple-pie life – find some girl, settle down, have a bunch of rugrats – but he knows that’s not ever going to happen. He’s accepted his life as a hunter, and if he lets himself have a scrap of normalcy then it’s not gonna stop. It might start off with just celebrating Christmas, but then it’ll turn into fuck knows what else. 

And yeah, he does wish they could just go back to the days where they hunted shifters and wendigo’s and lived in blissful ignorance of how screwed up the planet is. So maybe he hides behind this mask of ‘Christmas is stupid,’ but he really doesn’t give a fuck about the holiday one way or another. It’s what it _means_ ; family, togetherness, peace, none of which being things that he can rely on having. He doesn’t want them to alter their lives and pretend to be something they’re not just to go and die the next day, still lying to themselves about who they are. They haven’t had any of that ‘peace on earth’ crap for months, and no amount of cheesy decorations are gonna fix that.

Maybe Dean has underestimated how well Bobby knows him, because even though they’re thousands of miles apart, when Dean doesn’t answer, Bobby says, “ _Stop being pathetic and let yourself enjoy something for once. You’ve got a brother who’s in one piece, no-one dying to kill you, an actual_ friend _and no end-of-the-world. Take a few days off and let yourself be normal. Trust me, it ain’t gonna kill you.”_

“Bobby’s right,” Cas says from the back-seat, making Dean jump a little bit. 

“How’d you even…” Dean shakes his head. Freaking angel super-hearing. “I’m just not even gonna ask.” 

“ _So I’m guessin’ you’re on your way back here_ ,” Bobby says when Dean still fails to reply (it’s not his fault, he isn’t good at putting things into words.) He’s pretty sure Bobby knows what’s going on in his head anyway, maybe even better than Dean himself does.

“Yeah, we’ll probably get there before midnight on Christmas Eve.”

“ _This mean I have to get you presents?_ ” Bobby asks, sounding affronted. 

Dean chuckles. “Now who’s the Grinch?” 

“ _Shuddup_ ,” Bobby says. “ _Just ‘cause I condone Christmas don’t mean I like it all that much_.” 

“Yea, ok,” Dean replies. “Make sure you get lots of whiskey. And a tree. Sam wants a tree.” 

Bobby grunts, before saying, “ _Yeah, yeah, Season’s Greetings and all that_. _See you boys in a few days_ ,” and hanging up. 

“Bye,” Dean says to the phone. 

The leather of the back-seat groans as Cas leans forward. “Thank you for reconsidering, Dean,” he says. 

Dean cranes his neck around so he can see the angel-slash-falling-angel-slash-Dean-doesn’t-even-know-what-he-is-anymore. “Why’d you wanna do Christmas anyway?”

Cas thinks for a moment. “Because it’s a very human thing to do,” he replies after a beat. “You are the only species in the universe that have special dates with special customs and rules and expectations.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Dean asks. “It just makes people disappointed, because they try to be things they’re not to live up to the expectations but they can’t, and it just gets messy.”

Cas meets Dean eyes, and Dean can see that he has thought about this before. “The mess is part of what makes humanity so beautiful. Angels are all about order and sterility. You were made in our image, but you could not be more different.”

“It’s not fun though,” Dean shakes his head, “never knowing what to do next or if you’re right or wrong.” He stops for a moment and smiles sadly, realising something. “You know, I had almost this exact same conversation with Anna, ‘cept she was finding her grace not losing it.” It’s funny how a year ago, he didn’t even know angels existed, but now they’re everywhere and his life all but revolves around them. Here he is for the second time in fuck knows how many months talking to a semi-angel about the downsides of being a human, except this time the semi-angel is more important to him than Anna ever was. Despite the fact that Dean and Anna got it on (and it was great), Cas means so much more to him. Not in the same way as Anna of course, because that’d just be weird, because a) Cas is a guy, b) Dean is a guy and c) Dean isn’t gay, but if it came down to it – and it probably will eventually, because it’s their life – Dean would die for him. He never would’ve done that for Anna, as hot and nice as she was. 

“And then you slept with her,” Cas reminds him flatly, and Dean nearly chokes because he _was not_ expecting Cas to be on the same wavelength as he is right now about _that_. 

“She was about to become an angel again,” Dean says defensively. “We were making the most of her emotions while she had them. She said angels don’t have feelings.”

Cas frowns. “I have feelings.”

“But you’re not one-hundred per cent angel anymore either.”

Cas stares at Dean harder, and does that ridiculous owlish head-tilt thing that he does. “I’ve had strong emotions concerning you since before I began to fall, Dean,” he says quietly. 

Holy crap. 

If Dean didn’t know about Cas’ ignorance of boundaries and total lack of communication-skills, then he would think that Cas just told him that he had _feelings_ for him. Like _feelings_ , _feelings_. Scary, non-platonic, totally-inappropriate-between-two-guys-when-one-of-them-is-Dean-Winchester feelings. Cas is great, but not like that. Dean loves the guy, but as a _friend_ not a… not a romantic or sexual thing. He isn’t gay.

Dean realises that his thoughts sound like the diary of an insecure, sexually-confused middle schooler, and so he tells his head to shut up, because he knows what his sexuality is thank you very much. He has slept with enough women to populate a (very) small country, and enjoyed every second of it. For the second time in the last minute or so he finds himself comparing Cas to Anna in a way that he really shouldn’t be because _he slept with Anna for fucks sake_ and Cas is a guy and he has no intention of sleeping with him _ever_ because that’d be weird. 

Dean doesn’t know how to respond to that (because even though he knows that Cas didn’t mean it like _that_ it’s still not something his head is doing well processing) and so he just sort of looks at Cas and blinks, and probably looks like a complete idiot. 

Dean doesn’t even notice the passenger-door open until Sam coughs and says, “Am I interrupting something?” Dean jumps, but then scowls at everything because Sam was obviously insinuating something that goes hand in hand with the things that Dean was thinking and wishing he wasn’t.  

“Dean and I were discussing emotions,” Cas says, and Dean refuses to look at anyone, because he can freaking picture the stupidly smug look on Sam’s face. Dean needs to teach Cas some boundaries and communication-skills one of these days. 

“No we weren’t,” Dean mumbles, and even to his own ears he sounds sulky, but oh well, Sam is probably about to be a bitch so he has a right. 

Maybe Dean is becoming the psychic one, because approximately two seconds after he thinks it, Sam goes and says, “There’s nothing wrong with getting in touch with your feelings, Dean,” and unless Dean is thoroughly mistaken, that classifies as bitchy. That or Sam has been watching one too many therapy shows. 

Dean mimics Sam ( _there’s nothing wrong with getting in touch with your feelings, Dean_ ) as he turns the key in the ignition and continues to drive. Hoorah for fucking Christmas. 

* * *

“Take this next exit,” Sam says suddenly. It is – as far as Castiel is sure – 10:12am on the 24th of December, Christmas Eve. They are in central Wyoming, maybe twelve hours from Bobby’s house.

“Why?” Dean asks as he turns down the road.

“Because we need to go Christmas shopping. There’s a mall just down here,” Sam states matter-of-factly. 

Dean glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye and chuckles. “The mall, Sam? Really?” 

Sam glares at his brother. “I was going to actually get you a proper present, but if you really want I can get something for you at a convenience store.”

“Hey, ‘m not saying I don’t want a present,” Dean says defensively.

Castiel frowns. He knew that it was customary for people to exchange gifts on Christmas, but he has no idea whatsoever what he is going to get either of the Winchesters or Bobby. Anything that would hold any real value could not be found at a shopping outlet in Wyoming, that’s for sure. 

“You right there, grumpy?” Dean asks, looking at Castiel in the rear-view mirror. 

“I am contemplating the difficulty of finding appropriate gifts for you all.” Dean in particular will be hard to find a present for. Castiel wants to find something that he will like, opposed to something trivial and easily forgotten. He doesn’t know where to begin. 

“Speaking of,” Dean says, “what’d you want Cas?”

“I don’t require material possessions.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I get that, but what’d you _want_? Clothes, books, porn…” Sam gives Dean a disapproving look at the last option. “Anything you want,” Dean tilts his head. “Within reason. I’m not getting you a pony or anything stupid.”

Castiel is confused. “I don’t want a pony,” he tells Dean. He has no need for a pony, or any other animal. Not only would it be extremely impractical, but he has no desire to keep a pet. 

“Good, ‘cause you’d look stupid with a pony,” Dean tells him, and then chuckles. 

“I don’t know what I want,” Castiel tells him, and then thinks for a moment. “Get me something practical.” 

Dean groans. “You would be the kind of guy who asks for _something practical_. When someone asks what you want for Christmas, you don’t say _something practical_ , you get them to get you something stupid that you’ve been wanting for ages but never bought for yourself ‘cause it isn’t practical and you don’t actually need it.” 

Castiel frowns. “Why ask for something that you don’t need?” 

“ _Wants_ , man. Desires, wishes… things that make you happy.”

Castiel thinks for a moment about what ‘makes him happy,’ as Dean put it. There are no material things that he can think of that bring him any enjoyment. Yes, he enjoyed watching television with Dean, but that was because of how happy it made the hunter, not because it was particularly enthralling in itself. He is happy when Dean is happy. Or maybe he is just happy when he is with Dean, full stop, because even when he is being hostile and angry, Castiel is still better with him than without. 

“You make me happy, Dean,” Castiel summarises. 

Dean coughs and Castiel thinks he sees him blushing. “Yeah well… you can’t _have_ me. Sorry, Cas, you’re a great guy, but I don’t swing that way.”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t understand what that means.”

Sam glances back at him, looking somewhat pitying. “He mean’s he isn’t gay, Cas.”

“Oh,” Castiel is more confused than ever. “I know you’re not homosexual, Dean.”

Sam glares at his brother. “He was just being an idiot. He meant you can’t _have_ him. Like, have sex with him.”

“I have no desire to fornicate with Dean,” he replies. He doesn’t understand how saying that Dean makes him happy lead to the implication of sexual desire. He doesn’t want sex with anyone. He wishes to make Dean happy, and be there for him, be everything he needs, but not in a wanton way. 

Dean glares at Sam, before giving Cas an apologetic look. “I know, Cas. It was a joke. Like ‘ha, ha you want me for Christmas because I’m so freaking irresistible and it’s funny because neither of us are into dudes.’”

“I understand,” Castiel says, although he really doesn’t. Dean’s sense of humour will never fail to confuse him.

Dean turns the Impala into an expansive under-ground car park, concrete ramps leading down to a second basement level and every space in sight filled with cars of various makes, models and conditions.

“Geez,” Dean mutters as he searches for an empty parking space. “Talk about busy.” They’re driving for close to five minutes before Dean finds somewhere, a cramped spot between a minivan and a pickup-truck. 

“Oh, baby,” he says to his car as he turns off the ignition, “I don’t feel right about leaving you here.” This is an area designed for the storage of cars, so Castiel doesn’t understand why Dean seems sincerely worried about leaving his vehicle here. Dean seems to possess an unnatural connection with the Impala. 

They step out into the car-park, and thus begins Castiel’s first taste of Christmas. 


	11. Chapter Ten

Basically, Dean sucks at choosing presents for people. He has no freaking idea what people want, and so when he leaves Cas and Sam to go be girly and shop together, he is then left aimlessly walking through crowds of people looking for something – _anything_ – to buy.

He is bombarded by countless sales-women asking him if he wants to buy their new perfume for his ‘lady-friend’ and companies taking advantage of the Christmas hype and trying to get him to sign up his phone, or electricity or internet with them. Dean can’t help thinking that this’d be a damn good place to be a cross-roads demon. _Why not sell your soul this Christmas? 10 years interest free, and everything you ever wanted!_ After that, he takes to saying ‘Christo’ at every soul-munching corporate dick-monkey to talk to him. You can’t be too safe. 

He walked into the mall with every intention of getting something meaningful for everyone (because if he’s being forced to do this he may as well do it properly goddamn it) but after ten minutes he is ready to just _leave_. He seriously doesn’t get how people can _like_ shopping. 

* * *

“I don’t know how to choose presents,” Castiel says to Sam as they stand in the middle of the mall, people parting around them and shops selling everything from underwear to car-parts stretching off as far as Castiel can see.

Sam shrugs. “It’s like Dean said, get something they want.”

“I don’t know what any of you want,” Castiel frowns. That is a lie, he knows many things they all want – peace, a not-graceless angel, no more demons – but he can’t obtain any of these things. He doesn’t know what they want that he can physically get them. 

“Something that reminds you of them then, or something that you think they’ll like. I’d just get Bobby some top-shelf whiskey if I was you, and you don’t have to get me a present.”

Castiel decides he will buy Sam a book. “What about Dean,” he asks. 

Sam shakes his head. “I really don’t know for Dean. Maybe just look around and when you find something that makes you think of him, get it.”

“What are you buying him?” 

“I was thinking a new pair of boots,” Sam says. “It’s practical.”

Castiel frowns. “Dean said that practical was not good at Christmas.”

“Dean also said that he doesn’t need you, and look at where we are now. Usually, if Dean says something about himself, then you have to assume the opposite.”

Castiel thinks for a moment. “That does seem to be true,” he says. 

“Will you be alright by yourself?” Sam asks. “I don’t want you seeing what I’m getting for you is all.” 

“I believe so,” Castiel says. “I will find something that reminds me of Dean.”

Sam gives him a pat on the shoulder before pushing through the crowd in what Castiel guesses is the direction of the shoe-shop, leaving him with a bank-card under the name of ‘Jerry Monahan.’ 

Castiel begins by buying a bottle of liquor for Bobby and a novel for Sam, a book recommended by the young shop assistant, _Twilight_. She said it was about vampires and werewolves, and so as well as being ‘a great read,’ as the woman called it, Sam will be able to study monsters. Castiel is proud of his choice, because he likes helping the Winchester’s, and if Sam can study in a way that is also enjoyable, then all the better.

Dean on the other hand is so much harder. Sam had told him to buy anything that reminds him of Dean, and so as he traipses through the mall, he ends up purchasing a non-fiction book about _Metallica_ , a collection of magazines depicting women in compromising positions, and the movie box-set of _Lord of the Rings_ , but none of it feels right. Castiel wants to give Dean something that holds sentimental value, not something trivial that will be forgotten in a year’s time, nothing more than a memory of a Christmas passed. 

Dean doesn’t seem to want to accept that there is no way to save Castiel, even after he shared his memories and thoughts with him. It’s like he _can’t_ accept it, for fear of giving up entirely. Dean seems to always need something to keep him going, keep him fighting and stop him from sinking into himself and allowing himself to be overcome by memories of Hell and his own self-deprecation. He needs a drive; and at the moment this drive is Castiel. Despite what Castiel himself wants, Dean is continuing to search for a way to _help_. 

He just wishes he would let it go. 

It is only a matter of time before Dean realises there is nothing he can do, but there is a vast difference between realisation and acceptance. He will blame himself and be convinced that it’s his fault Castiel is falling, because not only was he the order Castiel disobeyed, but he also couldn’t find a cure when the time called for it. He will, as he always does, become angry and despondent, and refuse to talk to anyone at all. Castiel doesn’t want to let Dean hurt himself – whether mentally or physically – over this. 

Maybe it’s selfish, but Castiel doesn’t want Dean to be hurting, because he needs him. Without Dean, Castiel is lost. He has no purpose or reason to fight, especially now that he is no longer welcome in Heaven. He wants to make Dean understand that no matter what happens, whether Castiel is an angel or a human, he will still care about Dean just as much. He wants him to know that although yes, he isn’t all that excited about losing his grace, he would choose mortality over killing Dean any day. He doesn’t regret his decision, and would make the same one a million times over if it meant Dean could be saved, and he just needs him to _see_ this.

He wishes Dean would stop blaming himself. Castiel has no idea what goes on in the hunters’ head, but it is likely something along the lines of how it’s ‘all his fault’ and how ‘Castiel hates him’ and how he has ‘screwed up everyone’s lives.’ 

So as Castiel wanders without destination through the dense, frantic crowds of last minute shoppers, walking in and out of every store that catches his eye, he looks for something that will show Dean how he feels and how he wants _Dean_ to feel. He wants to show Dean that there is no guilt here, and that he _needs to stop trying_. Castiel needs him to stop trying. He doesn’t care about his grace if it means Dean is going to get hurt, and by constantly trying and failing, Dean _is_ getting hurt.

Castiel is brought back to reality by the soft voice of a jewellery- store clerk. “May I help you, sir?” she asks, shooting Castiel a manufactured smile. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, as he has in every other store. 

“Well what’re you looking for?” she asks. “A bracelet, necklace, broach, wedding ring, engagement ring, promise ring…”

“Promise ring?” Castiel interrupts, furrowing his eyebrows.

She blinks. “Um, yeah, we’re having a sale? Twenty per cent off.” 

A promise ring. Castiel knows that in human society, rings generally hold sentimental value, as well as being symbols of loyalty. He has been looking for something to show Dean that he has not ‘messed up,’ that things will work out how they are meant to. A promise. A promise that there is no way of _fixing_ Castiel, but also a promise that he doesn’t mind. A promise that he will protect Dean and remind him what he is fighting for; for him, for Sam, for the hundreds of people he saves each year. A promise that he will be there to stop Dean being broken. A promise that he will always choose Dean over Heaven and Hell. A promise that he will always protect him. 

“Could I please see the rings?” Castiel asks the woman. 

She smiles and nods, leading him toward a glass display case. “On this side we have the gold, then the silver, then the white gold, then platinum,” she says, gesturing to the rings in the case.

There are over three-dozen choices, most of them vastly different, the only similarities being the thin bands. Castiel blinks. “These are women’s rings,” he says. 

Her eyes widen. “Oh… oh, I’m sorry. I assumed… the men’s ones are over here?” 

“Thank you,” Castiel says, following her over to a second glass-case, the rings in this one being far more suited to Dean. 

There are just as many choices, different material bands, different patterns, some with gemstones, and some without. “I don’t know how to choose,” he tells the woman. 

“Well you want something that suits your… the person you’re buying it for,” she says. “Are they a gold or silver kind of person?”

Castiel thinks of the ring, Dean’s father’s wedding band, which he wears. “Silver, I think.” 

“Is he a gemstone kind of guy, or would you prefer something plainer?”

“I don’t think he would like a gemstone,” Castiel says, imagining Dean’s reaction to anything sparkly or even slightly feminine. 

“Pattern then? Or just a plain band? You could get it engraved if you want.”

Castiel frowns. This is more confusing than he would have believed it to be. “A pattern,” he decides.

“Ok, that narrows it down a lot! Now just have a look and when you’ve chosen come and get me!” she says brightly, before walking off and leaving Castiel staring at a ring display, hardly any wiser.

 _Something that reminds him of Dean_. 

One catches his eye, a silver band with an engraved pattern of overlapping ‘x’-es, lines twirling around each other, the end of one cross to the start of the next indiscernible. The grooves, unlike the rest of the ring, are a coppery colour, flakes of gold mixed in with green; the colour of Dean’s eyes. It is perfect.

He walks over to the shop assistant. “I’ve chosen a ring,” he tells her.

“Good,” she says, over-exaggeratedly excited, leading him back to the case, the heels of her shoes clicking against the tiled floor.

“That one,” Castiel says, pointing at the ring.

“Number 26?” she confirms.                             

“Yes.”

She nods and turns toward the store counter. “I’ll get one for you from out the back? Will you be purchasing on the spot or lay-buying?”

“I would like it now.”

“Back in a moment,” she says, smiling at him. 

He waits by the cash register until she returns with a small blue ring-box and a thick binder-folder. “Here we have the ring,” she says, placing to box down, “and here’s a book of engraving fonts. The box comes in blue, red, black or white, and an engraving is an extra $120.”

Castiel blinks. “Is an engraving customary?”

“No, uh, not really,” she looks confused, “but it makes it all that more personal.”

Castiel thinks for a moment, he wants this gift to have as much meaning as possible. “What should it say?”

She shrugs. “That’s up to you. Could be a quote, or something that means something to both of you, or the date, or your names. Like, it could just be _to so-and-so, from so-and-so_.”

“To Dean, from Castiel,” he decides. He wouldn’t know where to begin in choosing something to write on a ring for Dean, and anyway, Dean is something of a minimalist, so he should like it. Castiel really hopes he likes it.

“If you just write that down here…” she says, pushing him a piece of paper and a pen. “And what font would you like?”

“I am not partial.” 

“And what colour box was it?”

Castiel thinks for a moment. “Blue will be fine, thank you.” 

“All up that’ll be $410,” she says, punching numbers into the register. “Pay now, and then come back in an hour to pick it up.”

Castiel pulls out the bank-card. “Will this be sufficient?”

“Let’s see,” she says, grabbing it from him and scanning it. She nods. “That’ll be fine! Come back in an hour!”

Castiel thanks her and walks out of the store, proud of his choice of gift for Dean. He just hopes Dean will like it, but is almost certain he will. It is a symbol of Castiel’s faith; not in God but in Dean. It is a material representation of everything Castiel feels and everything he wishes Dean would feel, and hopefully, Dean will see what it means. It means promise.  

* * *

Dean is getting jumpy. He’s been waiting in the Impala, alone, for nearly an hour now, while Sam and Cas are still off _shopping_. The presents he bought all suck like hell, but hey, at least he tried. He wouldn’t put it past Sam to get them all bajillion-dollar techno-craps or something. That or stupid books. Cas is probably wandering around completely lost, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up unwrapping a bonsai tree or something. But then again, that’s just Cas.

He still finds it bizarre that he ever had a life without angels. Now, it seems like they’ve just always been _there_ (which he guesses they have, but existing in Heaven as clouds of virtue doesn’t really count). Cas is a constant for him now. It sounds stupid and cheesy, and he sounds like a middle-schoolers journal again, but he doesn’t want to imagine life without him. 

Cas is so clueless about fucking _everything_. He’s like a child – a bajillion year old child whose dad is capital-G God – but a child nonetheless. It makes Dean feel things he doesn’t quite understand to see Cas falling. It hurts – it hurts like fucking hell – but Dean also feels oddly… _odd_ about it all. He just wants Cas to stay with them, and he hates himself for even thinking it, because it’s damn selfish, but a graceless Cas who stays with them is better than an angelic Cas who is never there. Fuck, he wishes he could stop thinking it. It’s horrible, because Cas is fucking _falling_.

Dean would cut off his right arm (metaphorically, because he couldn’t handle not having a right arm again) before he said it to anyone, but he feels kind of lost without Cas. He really doesn’t know when that happened, because he used to not give a flying fuck where the angel was, as long as he wasn’t blowing up towns or anything, but now he can’t go a fucking _hour_ without thinking about him. Not in a weird way or anything. Like, he doesn’t think about Cas in a middle-schoolers diary kind of way, but every single thought he has seems to start with ‘Cas did this’ or ‘Cas said that’ or ‘Cas is blah blah’ or ‘Cas _blah blah blah_.’ 

It’s just fucking weird.

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get anything. He just wants his thoughts to stop thinking and the world to fix itself and Cas to be okay. If his head would just _shut up_ for one second! Right now, he kind of hates Cas because he is literally taking over all thought in Dean’s brain. Maybe it’s a side effect of the freaky-ass memory-meld. That’s probably it.

Dean also wishes that his thoughts would stop sounding pathetic and like they’re in denial because a) he is only a bit pathetic and b) there is nothing to deny. Sure, he isn’t a feelings-first kinda guy like Sam is, but he can face what he feels head on because he’s a _man_. The facts are: Cas is falling, Sam is okay, there is no way that he can see to save Cas, Cas is falling because of him but doesn’t seem to mind (the weird son of a bitch), they are apparently doing Christmas and Cas is literally all he can think about. If it were in a ‘ _his eyes are so beautiful I heart him so much omg I can’t stop looking at his lips_ ’ kind of way, then Dean would be worried, but it’s more of a ‘ _I fucked up his life oh shit I just want to fix him because he’s a stupid son of a bitch_ ’ way. Just for the sake of the argument, Cas does have really nice eyes though. And Dean wonders what his lips look like. He’s never really looked. They’re probably pretty nice because the guy Cas is possessing – which is still a freaky-ass concept – seems to be pretty well-kept. Apart from the eternal bed-hair thing, but it suits Cas. He will have to remember to have a look at his lips. 

Dean jumps when someone taps on the passenger side window. What if they’re a mind reader and heard Dean thinking about Cas’ lips? Shit. He only now realises how gay those thoughts could sound, and if there is one thing Dean Winchester is certain of, it’s that he’s not gay. So ha to any convenient mind-readers in the immediate vicinity. 

Luckily though, it’s not a mind reader come to taunt Dean for thinking about Cas’ lips in a totally straight way, just Sam. “Unlock the door,” he shouts over the sound of the radio. Because Dean is in a mess-with-Sam-‘cause-its-fun mood, he turns the music up louder and sings along, grinning at the glare Sam gives him.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, bitch face now in full throttle.

Dean leans back, drapes his arm over the passenger seat and taps his fingers casually against the upholstery. Sam scowls and stands up, and Dean can’t even see him properly anymore because Sam is a fucking building. 

The song changes, and then changes again, and Dean gets bored, so he unlocks the door and lets Sam in. “Jerk,” Sam mutters, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Bitch,” Dean replies, the word coming out of his mouth on instinct more than predisposed planning. Hell, even with all the crap going on, things haven’t been this easy between him and Sam or this generally _good_ since the good old days wherein all they did was hunt C-list monsters and save a few people. He isn’t sure if that thought makes him happy or sad.

“Cas not back yet?” Sam asks, frowning.

“Nah, he’s probably fascinated by a lava lamp or something. Give him another half-hour before you go rushing in to find him.”

“What’d you get him?”

Dean smirks. “I’ll never tell. It’s a _secret_.” It really isn’t that great of a present (actually, it kinda sucks) but as he said, messing with Sam is fun. 

“Fine,” Sam says. “Just making conversation. And turn that down,” he bitches, gesturing to the radio, which is now playing Black Sabbath.

“Make me,” Dean says, which just makes Sam roll his eyes.

“I’m glad you’ve gotten back your maturity,” he says sarcastically, and so Dean pokes his tongue out, _just_ to see the condescending look Sam gives him.

Dean raises his eyebrows and waits and, yep, it only takes a few seconds before Sam cracks and is doubled over laughing.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sam says when he comes down from his laughter-high, letting out one last chuckle. 

“Many things, Sammy, many things,” Dean smiles, and fuck it all, he’s just gonna stop beating himself up about feeling good and just let himself be happy. It might be totally messed up, because Cas is all but dying here, but _oh fucking well_. Cas _isn’t_ dying, and nor is anyone else and so fucked-up-shit or no-fucked-up-shit, its Christmas and Dean deserves it. 

***

It takes another half-hour before Cas gets back, and Dean is just getting ready to go back into the shops and get them to put an announcement over like they do for lost children, when the semi-angel opens the door and slides into the back seat, holding a large brown-paper bag. 

“What took you so long?” Dean asks. 

“I was shopping,” Cas says flatly.

“Yeah, thanks for that, Captain Obvious” 

Cas frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Dean rolls his eyes. _Seriously_. “Never mind,” he sighs. “Everyone ready to go? I wanna get out of here as soon as possible. Malls give me the heebie jeebies.” 

“Let’s go,” Sam says, and Dean carefully reverses out of the parking spot, narrowly avoiding the back of an ugly Toyota Crap-Mobile (because he is a fucking amazing driver) and getting out of there as fast as he possibly can without killing them, the Impala or pedestrians. 

They drive for the next ten hours, sometimes it being completely silent, sometimes AC/DC being blasted through the speakers and sometimes Cas asking stupid questions like why the lady on the billboard is in such compromising attire when children could be driving down this road. They stop for food twice, and then an additional two times for Sam to stretch his giraffe legs, and once when Cas sees ‘an intriguing flower’ on the side of the road. Dean makes a metal note to never go on long car trips with Cas again because _an intriguing flower_ for fucks sake. 

Finally, after way too many hours cramped up inside the Impala (because eventually a point is reached where even AC/DC can’t help) they are driving through Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It’s just after midnight when they roll into the Singer Auto Salvage Yard, and Dean is sure they could have got here way earlier if they didn’t have to stop and look at The Intriguing Flower. 

They get out of the car, Dean stretches (and _fuck_ does that feel great), grab their bags from the trunk and walk up to Bobby’s front door. Dean almost chokes when he sees the beer-can and hub-cab wreath hanging on the door. Trust Bobby to make something like that. 

Before he can knock, the door is pulled open by a typically-grumpy-looking Bobby. “Come in, then,” he says.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Dean says sarcastically. Apart from the metal wreath (which if Dean is honest hardly even classifies as a ‘wreath’) on the door, the house looks exactly the same, which is good because he would probably have to test Bobby for demonic possession if there was tinsel and baubles and shiny-glowy-Christmas-things in the front entrance. “Very festive.”

“Shut up,” Bobby grumbles. “There’s a tree in the lounge ‘n I’m wearing a red hat. I ain’t filling my house up with _decorations_.” 

“It is the thought that counts,” Cas says comfortingly, which makes Dean need to hold onto the wall for support because _Jesus, Cas_. 

When Dean can breathe again, he claps the semi-angel on the shoulder, throws his duffels on the floor (which makes Bobby frown) and officially calls shotgun on the bed in Bobby’s lounge room. He’s been driving all day, and plus, it’s Christmas and he’s the oldest and he is pretty sure there is some Christmas story somewhere saying that the older brother always gets the bed while the younger brother sleeps on a camp-stretcher because the older brother says so. If not, he’s gonna make one. 

“Dunno ‘bout you,” he calls to Sam, Cas and Bobby, who are still in the hallway, “but screw consciousness. I’m sleeping.” He pulls of his jacket and shirt, collapses down onto the bed, and is asleep within seconds. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

Dean isn’t sure what wakes him. It could have been a squeaky floorboard, or the sound of someone’s breathing, or simply the feel of eyes on him. Someone is watching him. Slowly, so creeper-monster isn’t alerted, he slides his hand under his pillow for his knife, but, he realises with a jolt of panic, it isn’t there. In his haste to get to bed last night, he must have left it in his duffle bag. It would be just his luck to be killed by some monster who likes to watch shirtless hunter’s sleep. 

But as always, if he’s gonna die, he’s gonna go down swinging. He won’t lay here while creeper-monster kills him, he’s gonna get up and fight goddamn it. He slowly counts to three and then jumps out of the bed (maybe not looking all that dignified), yells a battle cry (hoping to give across the general message of I-was-sleeping-you-dick-and-I’m-also-half-naked-so-please-don’t-mess-with-me-because-I-will-kill-you-because-I-am-Dean-fucking-Winchester-monster-hunter) and jumps on the creeper-monster. 

“Dean,” the creeper-monster grunts as it lands on the floor, and it takes Dean a moment to realise that he knows that voice.

“Cas?” Dean asks, leaning back and looking in the semi-angel not-creeper-monster’s eyes.

“Yes,” he replies, somehow managing to look perfectly disdainful even when lying on the floor of Bobby’s library.

“What were you doing?” It’s not normal for anyone – even if they are an angel – to just _stand there_ and watch people sleep. _Jesus, Cas_. 

“I was coming to wake you up,” he grunts.

“Why?” Dean asks. 

“Because it’s nearly eleven-o’clock and it’s Christmas.”

“Oh.” Dean had forgotten that it was Christmas. He supposes most people wake up all excited on Christmas morning because _presents_ and _beer_ and _family_ , not ready to stab the what-ever-the-fuck-it-is watching them sleep. Dean is just glad it was Cas and not some perverted demon. 

Cas stares up at Dean, perfectly calm and collected, and the sunlight from the window catches his eyes, and casts soft shadows across his face. Dean nearly gasps, because _wow_. He never realised how nice Cas’ eyes really were. He knew that they were blue, and would be really pretty on any girl, but _holy crap_. They are like if the ocean and the sky smashed together and had a love-child of sheer blueness. Screw looking nice on a girl, they look nice on Cas. His face is all chiselled features and sharp lines, which just makes his eyes so much more brilliantly outstanding. 

Dean figures that now would be as good a time as any to prove his theory about the lip-thing.

His eyes flick down from Cas’ eyes to his mouth, and again, _holy crap_. Dude-lips should not have a right to look like that. They are full and kind of chapped, but somehow look soft, but rough, but utterly foreign, but completely familiar. Dean licks his own lips. His eyes roam back up to meet Cas’, and then back down to his mouth. He really wants to kiss him right now. Like, _really, really_ wants to kiss him, just to see what will happen. He is about to lean in that inch more, consequences be damned, when he hears a cough from the doorway.

He snaps his head around to see Sam standing there, leaning against the doorframe with raised eyebrows. “Is there something you two aren’t telling me or…?”  

It’s only then that Dean realises he is fully on top of Cas, his shirtless torso lined up perfectly with Cas’ clothed one and his hands pinning Cas’ wrists either side of his head. There are barely four inches between their faces and at some point (Dean isn’t sure when) Cas’ hand had moved up to rest gently on his hip.

 _Holy crap_.

Dean jumps up and shit, he is terrified right now. It is a different kind of fear; less I’m-about-to-die and more I-was-about-to-kiss-Cas-and-really-wanted-to. He knows how it must have looked to Sam, and he knows that it very nearly _was_ what it looked like. 

He pushes past Sam and all but runs to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and splashing his face with cold water from the tap. Holy fucking fuck from mighty fucking fuckville fuckdonia motherfucking fuck. He isn’t sure what just happened. Cas had been telling him that it was Christmas, and then sunlight, and then eyes, and then almost-kiss and… _fuck_. 

If he had just been found by Sam lying on top of Cas, shirtless, without there being any weird thoughts going through his head, then he could have laughed it off, and called Sam a bitch for even implying anything, but the fact that he actually wanted to _kiss_ Cas is so messed up that Dean can’t even begin to put it into words. He doesn’t have anything against guys kissing other guys, as long as they don’t flaunt it and hit on him. But Dean isn’t gay. He fucking loves women, and so he shouldn’t have been thinking about kissing Cas for fucks sake.  Cas is a dude. Dean is a dude. No matter how nice his eyes or lips or anything is Dean _shouldn’t be thinking about fucking kissing him_. He doesn’t like Cas; not like that. Cas is his best-friend, but that’s it. 

Dean runs his hands over his face and takes a shuddering breath. He needs to calm down. He just nearly kissed a guy, but _hey_ , no big deal. But _he just nearly kissed a guy_ , so of course it’s a fucking big deal! And not just any guy either – if it were some random dude in a bar when Dean was piss-drunk, then it wouldn’t have been _as_ bad – but _Cas_. Cas the semi-angel, with his trench-coat and blue eyes and profound care for Dean and intense interest in Intriguing Flowers and total cluelessness of everything. Dean was sober, and in control and yet the desire had been there.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _want_ to understand. If he understands then he will just freak out more.

What if Cas actually did mean he wanted Dean in _that way_ yesterday? Cas had had his hand on Dean’s hip after all, and he hadn’t tried to push him off when he easily could have. Dean splashes his face with water again. No, he isn’t gonna start getting angry at Cas just because he’s socially-constipated and has no idea what is normal between two guys and what isn’t. He doesn’t know that guys don’t lie platonically on the floor about to kiss. It’s not his fault.

It’s all Dean. Dean’s stupid brain and stupid adrenaline and stupid motherfucking everything seemed to have a moment of total gayness. He takes a deep breath. It wasn’t his fault though. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t actually want to kiss Cas, it was just a heat-of-the-moment desire. But the thing that scares him the most is that he _did_ want it. But no, that’s messed up because Dean isn’t gay.

He stays in the bathroom for another fifteen-minutes, calming himself down and reminding himself that there was no meaning behind it. Just because he thought of Cas’ lips in a stupid way _once_ doesn’t mean he wants to kiss him. Dean is not gay, Cas is not gay, sometimes thoughts like that just happen.

When he deems it safe, he unlocks the door and walks quietly out into the hall. It all happened really quickly, so Dean can’t even be sure that his brain was thinking _kiss Cas_. It probably wasn’t. _Yeah, that’d be it_. Dean misread his thoughts, and it was all a misunderstanding. He isn’t going to let a stupid thing like this ruin their Christmas. 

He showers and dresses and by the time lunch rolls around, the Cas-incident is only a nagging itch in the back of Dean’s mind. 

* * *

“Is it customary for the turkey to taste like tree bark?” Castiel asks later that evening, when they are all cramped around Bobby’s dining room table, eating Christmas dinner. Castiel does not require food, but it is tradition, and so he feels obliged to follow it.

Dean snorts. “You would be a fussy eater. It’s not _that_ bad.” Despite what Dean says, Castiel still believes it to taste like bark. 

“Hey!” Bobby says, glaring at them both. “I slaved away over a hot stove to cook this.”

“You bought it in a packet and put it in the oven,” Dean reminds him, mouth full of roast potato. 

“I like it, Bobby,” Sam says kindly, which just makes Bobby grumble and Dean pull a face.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Bobby,” Castiel apologises. “It simply tastes like tree-bark.”

Sam gives him a disapproving look, and in a whisper that is louder than probably intended, says, “Cas, you’re supposed to lie. It’s Christmas.”

Castiel frowns. “I thought Christmas was a time of truth.”

“If someone cooks, then you pretend to like it.”

“Oh,” Castiel furrows his eyebrows and then forces his face into a wide smile. “Thank you for dinner, Bobby. It’s very delicious.”

Sam gives him a pitying look. “Just… just stop talking, Cas.”

Castiel allows the false-smile to drop. “I thought I was supposed to lie,” he tells Sam.

“Yeah but not after you’ve already said it tastes like bark. Just keep it in mind for next Christmas,” Sam says, not even picking up on what he’s insinuating. 

“You want to have another Christmas?” 

Sam shrugs, glancing over at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t see why not.”

“And you want me to join you?”

“You’re part of the family now, Cas,” Dean says, as he spears another potato on his fork. Castiel feels a bubble of warmth and gratitude swell up inside him, and he meets Dean’s eyes from across the table. Castiel feels a real smile tugging at the sides of his mouth, small and barely even visible, but there. Dean smiles back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Castiel realises he has never felt this happy before. He stares at the hunter, watching the way the candles (which Sam had insisted on, saying it made it more ‘Christmassy’) cast soft shadows across his face. His green eyes are bright and happy, and – even if Castiel looks down deeply – free from hurt and guilt. 

Castiel feels odd inside, warm and content and yet strikingly lonely. Dean blinks slowly and, Castiel thinks, Dean really is very beautiful. Not only is he, by human standards, physically attractive, but his soul is also bright and radiant, shining like a thousand diamonds caught in the light of the rising sun, like the severed grace of an angel hanging in oblivion, like all the stars in the sky brought together and tempered into one. For a reason he doesn’t know, Castiel aches to tell Dean all of this, even though he knows that Dean would laugh at the poetic quality of his thoughts, but he doesn’t. Dean would not react well. 

Instead he says, “Thank you, Dean,” and finally drops his gaze, still ridiculously happy and full of emotions he cannot even begin to name. He feels Sam look at him and goes to meet his eyes, but Sam just gives him a puzzled glance and turns away. 

The rest of the meal passes relatively mundanely, Sam, Dean and Bobby eating and Castiel abandoning his meal in favour of watching the others. He does not enjoy the similarity the food has to tree bark. They make light conversation, and it seems that for the first time in a long while, everyone is happy. 

When they can eat no more, Sam gets up and grabs a cardboard box out of the cupboard.

“Dude, if I’d known there was gonna be dessert I wouldn’t have eaten so much,” Dean groans, holding a hand to his stomach. 

“It’s not dessert,” Sam says.

“Why not?” Dean asks, frowning. “You can’t have Christmas dinner without dessert.”

Sam gives Dean a look. “You’re not hungry,” he reminds him. “It’s an old polaroid camera I found when I was cleaning out the library the other week.”

“Didn’t even know I still had that,” Bobby says, raising his eyebrows. “It even work?”

“It did yesterday.”

“Then gather ‘round,” Bobby mutters. “Time for a Christmas photo.” Castiel isn’t sure whether this is traditional, but Sam and Bobby seem to know enough about Christmas, so his guess it yes. 

Dean grunts. “Do we have to?”

Bobby looks at him. “Yes. Now you boys get your asses over here.”

Dean mutters something about how their lives are turning into a sitcom, but shuffles his chair closer to Bobby. 

“Cas,” Dean says as Sam sets up the tripod, “you need to actually stand up and move over here.” 

“Apologies,” Castiel says, which just makes Dean roll his eyes. Castiel goes and stands behind Dean, staring forward, unblinking.

Dean tilts his head back and looks at him. “You look like you stepped in dog shit,” he states. “Try and relax.” Castiel frowns and tries to make his body loosen, slumping his shoulders and smiling. 

“Now you just look even stupider,” Dean says. “Go back to the other one.” Castiel glares at him and straightens back up. 

“Ok,” Sam says, adjusting a dial on the camera. “I think we’re good to go.”

He walks over and stands next to Castiel, placing one hand on Bobby’s shoulder and the other draped loosely over Castiel’s. Castiel deduces that physical contact is encouraged, and so places his hands on Dean’s shoulders and leans forward, and probably not even realising he is doing it, Dean leans backwards into his touch. 

“Smile,” Bobby says, as the camera clicks its countdown. Castiel thinks of Dean when he is happy, the way his eyes glow in the candle light and his assurance that Castiel is part of the family. When the camera flashes, Castiel’s smile is genuine. 

***

“Presents!” Dean exclaims ten minutes later when they have cleared the table and precariously stacked the dishes.

“I thought you didn’t like Christmas?” Sam reminds him.

Dean huffs and straightens up. “Yeah, well… shut up.”

“Just gimme a second,” Bobby says. “Need to get your things from the cupboard. You go wait in there and _don’t_ start without me.”

Castiel follows Dean and Sam into the lounge room, where a reasonably sized fir tree sits in the corner, dropping needles onto the floor. The only decoration is a hastily constructed wire star on the top of the tree, and although it is not perfect or in any way beautiful, Castiel thinks it suits. The Winchester’s and Bobby are not normal people, so will by no rights have a picture-perfect Christmas. Their lives are messy and spontaneous, and as Castiel had said to Dean the day before, that is part of what makes being human so beautiful. 

Their lives are like the fir tree, constantly breaking, pieces falling off, bare of any adornment whatsoever, but with the one thread-bare luxury keeping it from being utterly depressing, the single wire star at the top of their metaphorical tree. For Castiel, this star is Dean, for Dean it is Sam, for Sam it is Dean and for Bobby it is the Winchester boys. Castiel wants to be someone’s metaphorical wire star. He wants to be _Dean’s_ metaphorical wire star. 

Maybe that can be part of his promise. 

“I didn’t wrap anything,” Bobby says as he walks into the room with a duffel bag, “but it’s the thought that counts, ‘n all.”

Castiel sits down on the sofa between Sam and Dean, cradling his bag of gifts in his lap. 

“Let’s get this over and done with,” Bobby grunts, sitting down in the armchair next to the sofa. “Who wants to go first?”

Sam shrugs. “I will, I guess.” The whole atmosphere seems awkward and put-together to Castiel.

“Uh, Bobby,” Sam says, pulling out a bottle-shaped package wrapped in newspaper. 

“I wonder what it could be?” Bobby says sarcastically. “Oh, look, vodka!” He feigns surprise and places it in the crook of the chair next to him. “Thanks, Sam.”

Sam smiles and pulls out a second package, and already, it seems like their actions are becoming more natural and less forced. “Dean,” he says, handing it over. Dean pulls off the paper and glances up at Sam when he sees the shoe-box underneath.

“What’d I say about practical?” he asks.

Sam glares at him. “You can either wear those or keep walking around in those mangled bits of leather that no longer have a right to be called _boots_.”

Dean frowns. “Point taken. Thanks, Sammy!”

The gift exchange continues, and Castiel ends up with some clothes from Sam – a plaid shirt, two dark-blue t-shirts, and a white dress shirt not unlike the one his vessel wears – , a flip-knife from Bobby and a cell phone from Dean.

“Sorry if it sucks,” Dean shrugs, “I didn’t know what to get an angel, or… semi-angel at least.” 

“I don’t know how to use a cell phone,” Castiel frowns. “But thank you Dean.”

“I figure you need a way to contact us in case we get separated or something,” Dean says. “Don’t worry, Sam’s a geek, he’ll teach you.” Sam scowls at Dean.

Soon, the only gifts left to disperse are the ones Castiel purchased. So far, Bobby has received two bottles of alcohol (which will soon be made three); Sam a thick book of Greek mythology from Bobby and a large, stuffed moose from Dean and Dean the boots and a machete, which Bobby claims used to be John Winchester’s.

“’S not much,” Bobby says, “but I found it laying around upstairs and thought it might mean more to you than me.”

“Thanks Bobby,” Dean smiles sadly. 

“I think he’d have wanted you to have it,” Bobby says, returning the expression. 

Dean clears his throat, places the machete on the coffee table and claps his hands together. “Cas, you get anyone anything?”

Castiel nods, and pulled out the first gift, Sam’s book, which is wrapped neatly in red and gold Christmas paper.

“How’d you wrap it so neat?” Dean asks, sounding amazed. 

“A woman at the mall was running a gift wrapping business,” Castiel replies. “I took advantage of it.”

Dean huffs. “Good, because I was gonna have to call you an elf.”

Castiel sends him a questioning look. “I don’t remember your version of elves wrapping gifts.”

“What, the… the Lord of the Rings elves?” Dean snorts. “No, I mean like Christmas elves, _Santa’s Little Helpers_ or whatever.”

“There is no such thing as Santa Claus, Dean,” Castiel frowns. “There are of course variations, but the modernised imagine of Father Christmas is purely myth.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, I know Cas. Don’t worry about it. I was kidding.”

Castiel doesn’t understand the array of ways in which humans portray elves. They do of course exist, but they are ruthless, vicious creatures, with magical powers and cunning to rival demons. They are in no way associated with Christmas or gift wrapping. 

“Can I open it now?” Sam asks, holding up the wrapped present. 

Castiel nods and Sam carefully pulls off the paper, and then lets out an amused snort.

“I… wow, thanks Cas,” he chokes. 

“I believe it will be educational,” Castiel tells him.

“What is it?” Dean asks, leaning forward so he can see, and then pulls a face. “Isn’t that the one with the sparkly vampires?” 

Sam glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye and nods. “Uh, yeah.”

Castiel frowns. “Vampires don’t sparkle.”

“Gimme that,” Dean says, grabbing the book out of Sam’s hands. “ _Of three things I was absolutely positive_ ,” he reads in an airy voice. “ _First Edward was a vampire. Second, there was a part of him – and I didn’t know how dominant that part might be – that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him_ ,” Dean finishes slowly, snorting and throwing the book back at Sam.

“Nice one, Cas,” he says, clapping him on the back. 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel frowns. 

“Book about a sparkly vampire named Edward and his _intense forbidden love_ for some whiny bitch. That has to be the best present Sam has ever gotten,” he grins. “Ain’t that right Sam?”

“Um, no, yeah, I love it,” Sam says, shuffling in his seat. “Thanks Cas.”

“Thank you. The woman in the shop recommended it.”

Dean snorts again and raises an eyebrow at Sam, who glares at his brother and puts the book on the table. “I’ll… get around to reading it,” he assures Castiel.

Castiel pulls out Bobby’s present and hands it to him, and the older hunter chuckles. “I see you boys are all as original as each other. What’s it this time, vodka, whiskey or somethin’ else?” He pulls off the paper. “Whiskey. Thanks’ Cas.” He squints at the bottle and then looks up, surprised. “This is top grade stuff. Couple o’ hundred dollars a bottle. How’d you even afford this?” 

“Jerry Monahan,” Cas says, eyes wandering to the collection of gifts on the table. 

“Uh huh,” Bobby sounds confused, but doesn’t press further.

“I got you several gifts,” he says to Dean, handing him the bag.

Dean raises his eyebrows and pulls out the one on top. He unwraps it and laughs. “Lord of the Rings box set.” He looks up. “But I thought it confused you. The inaccuracies and cist-whatever’s and stuff.”

“Cistrons,” he corrects automatically. “You seemed to enjoy the film, and upon learning there were more I felt as if I should purchase them for you. It doesn’t matter that it confuses me.” 

“Thanks Cas,” he smiles. “But you’re turning me into a fucking nerd.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with enjoying movies, Dean. It doesn’t make you a ‘nerd.’”

Dean mutters something about Castiel being a ‘nerd-angel’ so he would say that, and goes to unwrap the next gift. He lets out an amused shout. “Skin mags! How’d you even think of these things, Cas?”

“I bought anything that reminded me of you.”

Dean chuckles and flicks through the first magazine. “Me likey,” he says saucily, stopping at a picture of an unclothed blonde woman.

“Dude!” Sam says, grabbing the magazines out of Dean’s hands and throwing them onto the table. “It’s Christmas! You don’t look at porn on Christmas _in front of_ people! You don’t look at porn in front of people _ever_.”

Dean pouts. “Fine. You’re just jealous because I got real porn and you only got vampire porn.”

Sam scowls at Dean. Dean pulls out the next gift – the Metallica book. “Please be more porn,” he whispers as he unwraps it, most likely just to annoy Sam. 

He laughs and lets the paper fall to the floor. “It’s a Metallica book,” he says, holding it up so Sam can see. “Cas, seriously, you’re awesome!” 

“Thank you.”

“Sam, you’re being replaced. Cas gets me better presents,” Dean jokes, and Sam pulls a face at him. 

“There’s one more,” Castiel says, for a moment scared that it somehow dropped out of the bag. But no, Dean pulls out the small package, and smiles excitedly at Cas.

“Considering the presents keep getting more and more awesome, I can feel I’m gonna like this.” Castiel thoroughly hopes he does.

Dean pulls off the paper, and looks confused when he sees the box.

“Is that a _ring_ box?” Bobby asks, astounded.

Eyes flickering from the semi-angel to the present in his hand, Dean slowly opens the lid, and then his eyes widen. “Is this…” he croaks, and then clears his throat. “Cas, this is a ring.”

Castiel nods. “It’s a promise ring.”

Dean slams the lid down and stands up, looking frankly terrified. “I need to…” he gestures wildly toward the hallway. “I need to go, I…” he shoves the ring shakily into his pocket. “ _A promise ring_.” And then – not for the first time that day – he all but runs out of the room, looking more frightened than he would be if he saw a ghost.

For the second time in his life, Castiel feels his heart break. 


	13. Chapter Twelve

“He doesn’t like it,” Castiel says flatly. “Why doesn’t he like it?”

Sam gulps and taps his fingers nervously against his knee. “He… I think he took it the wrong way, Cas.” 

Dean is quick to temper, and receiving a promise ring from his best friend (whom he had been possibly making out with that morning, Sam isn’t sure) definitely fits in on the List of Ways to Make Dean Angry and Offended. Sam is pretty sure that Cas didn’t mean it as a promise of marriage or anything, but either way, Dean isn’t happy. Dean, who is so defensive of his sexuality, isn’t going to appreciate the implication of a relationship with another guy – even if it was unintentional. Sam feels really horrible for Cas.

“How did he take it?” Cas asks. 

Sam bites his lip. “Usually promise rings are meant as a promise to marry or to… _wait_ for your partner – romantic partner – for a long time.”

Castiel frowns, and if the whole thing wasn’t so damn sad, he’d be embarrassed for the angel. “I didn’t know. I just wanted to promise him that everything would be okay.” 

“I know,” Sam sighs. “Dean knows as well, but he’s… well, he’s Dean. You know how he gets.”

“But Dean and I aren’t in a romantic relationship,” Cas continues. “He knows that I have no implication to marry him. He’s my friend…”  Cas trails off. “It was a promise I would be his metaphorical wire star.”

Sam isn’t sure what the last bit meant, but he gets the general gist of what Cas was saying, and knows what he thought the promise ring meant. “Look, he’ll come around,” Sam says. “Just give him some time to fume and realise he’s being stupid and unreasonable.” 

“You know what he’s like,” Bobby adds. 

Cas stares forward, his face blank of emotion. “Are you sure?” he asks, turning to Sam. “Should I seek him out and apologise? 

“Yeah, I am sure. Just give it time. And he should be the one apologising. He’s just being an ass, Cas. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you, Sam. I’ve had fun today; it’s been good,” and Sam thinks he means it, despite the more recent events. He stands up. “I’m going to go for a walk. I need to… collect my thoughts. I’ll be back by morning.”

He walks out of the lounge-room and a few seconds later, the front door closes softy. 

“Feel sorry for him,” Bobby says after a beat.

“Dean’ll come around. Especially since it’s Cas. He always does.”

“I didn’t mean Cas,” Bobby says. “Dean must have some real insecurity issues to freak out at somethin’ like that. His grapefruit must be pretty messed up.”

Sam sighs. “It’s Dean. Of course his grapefruit’s messed up.”

Bobby nods solemnly and, as if by some unspoken agreement, they go their separate ways, Bobby to his caryard and Sam into the kitchen to finish washing up, glancing at the forgotten polaroid picture sitting on the dining table: Dean looking up at Cas like the world revolves around him and Cas staring forward, happier than Sam has ever seen him, his hands clamped down on Dean’s shoulders. Sam really doesn’t know what’s going on between his brother and Castiel, but if he’s being honest with himself, they look at each other the way he used to look at Jess, and they probably don’t even notice they’re doing it. Or maybe they do, and that’s why Dean is so scared. 

* * *

As always, Dean hates someone, and as always, he isn’t 100% sure who. It might be Cas; the stupid bastard made Dean look gayer than any straight guy should look, buying him a fucking _promise ring_ for fucks sake. Or, probably more accurately, it could be himself; he let his head think stupid things and then freaked out when Cas was just trying to do something nice for him. He knows Cas didn’t mean the promise ring as a marriage proposal or anything, but it’s still… Dean doesn’t even know what the fuck to call it any more.

Stupid, stupid Cas. The son a bitch doesn’t know fucking anything about anything, and because of that Dean has now unintentionally broken their family again. But he knows that’s a lie. Cas knows plenty, he just doesn’t have boundaries. He’s not stupid, he just doesn’t _get it_. He doesn’t understand that you don’t buy your best friend a fucking promise ring, or let them nearly fucking kiss you. He’s like a brilliant, genius, fucking clueless child from before the beginning of humanity, complete with badass fighting skills and a stupid, stupid care-too-much attitude. 

Jesus, Dean fucked everything up again. 

He shouldn’t have run out like that; he saw Cas’ face, and he looked utterly shattered. If he were level-headed (which he sure as fuck isn’t) then he would have calmly explained to Cas that while he appreciated the sentiment, dudes don’t give other dudes promise rings for Christmas, especially when these two dudes are best friends and one of said dudes had a freak-out earlier that morning because he wanted to kiss other said dude. Dean is over the whole ‘holy-shit-I-wanted-to-kiss-Cas’ thing, because upon reflection, he has established that it was one of those stupid tricks your mind plays on you. He was half-asleep, and Cas’ eyes were really nice, and his adrenaline got in the way of his actual thoughts and feelings. It’s stupid to think otherwise, because Dean Winchester is as straight as a ruler. 

But that morning’s events forgotten, running out like that really was a dick move, and Dean knows it. If it happened again, then he would probably do the exact same, because he’s an action-now think-later kind of guy, but he really should apologise to Cas. But aplogising is one of many things Dean sucks at. He doesn’t know where to begin, and nine times out of ten, he just makes everything worse. 

He’ll say sorry in the morning. He’ll go to sleep, and when he wakes up it’ll be a new day and the whole thing will seem stupid. He collapses down on the bed in Bobby’s guest room – a room he probably isn’t even supposed to be in – and tries to let sleep take him.

Tonight the nightmares feature no blood, no bone, no Hell. All there is is beautiful, indescribable, _Castiel_ blue and it’s swallowing Dean whole, robbing him of rational thought and drowning him until he can’t breathe. 

***

Dean isn’t sure what wakes him. It could have been the sun shining weakly through the bedroom window, it could have been the murmur of voices downstairs or it could have simply been the throbbing blueness that overcomes his subconscious every time he closes his eyes. He sits up, runsa hand through his hair and leans back against the head of the bed. 

He had been right last night, everything does just seem stupid this morning, but not in a ‘no-one-cares-anymore’ kind of way. Dean feels like shit. Cas tried to do a nice thing for him, and he all but threw the present back in his face. Just ‘cause Dean had had a minor freak-out about his sexuality yesterday morning (which _does_ file under ‘stupid-because-no-one-cares-anymore,’) didn’t give him a right to instantly assume that Cas was trying to be fucking _romantic_ or whatever, when he was just trying to be a good friend. In his own, special, Cas way of course. 

But the dude had bought him a promise ring. A fucking _promise ring_ for fucks sake. Dean has had his fair share of embarrassing, but that is right up there with that time in high school that his entire English Lit class had caught him fucking the teacher. He had been caught with his pants down (literally) and he still remembers the absolute mortification and _shame_ of it, but also the thrill that came from being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to enjoy. This feels kind of the same. He is embarrassed for himself, because he can’t even begin to wonder what Sam must have thought when he ran out last night (and when he was very-nearly kissing Cas, but he is forgetting about that), but if anything, he’s more embarrassed for the angel. Cas would have gone into a ring shop, and asked for a promise ring, and the people would have thought he was buying one for his _boyfriend_. Holy crap, people would have thought _Dean_ was Cas’ boyfriend. 

Maybe for the first time, Dean is glad that Cas doesn’t get embarrassed, because Dean wasn’t even there and he feels like burying his head in a mountain. 

But once he has moved past all the ‘holy-crap-I-can’t-believe-he-actually-did-that,’ it kind of feels nice. He knows that Cas didn’t mean it in a romantic way, and just wanted to show Dean that he wasn’t gonna be scared off by his asshole-ish-ness. It just makes him feel really _warm_ to know that there are people outside of Sam and Bobby who actually give a crap what happens to him. Dean likes what Cas is trying to say to him, and minus the whole _promise-rings-are-usually-only-for-lovers-and-we’re-not-lovers_ bit, it’s the best gift Dean’s ever got. It’s a platonic-promise-ring. 

He grabs the ring box off of the side table where he had put it last night. In his haste to get as far away from it as possible, he didn’t even give it a proper look. If Cas bought him something with fucking diamonds on it he’s gonna fucking kill him. He isn’t a girl. 

Dean opens the box and does something between a gasp and a laugh when he sees the platonic-promise-ring. No diamonds or stupid girly love-hearts or anything. Cas actually did a pretty good job. The ring is silver with a curly, coppery pattern along the middle, and even though Dean isn’t a jewellery kind-of-guy, it’s actually really nice. He lifts it up to eye level and spins it around slowly. He’s just glad Cas didn’t get him a freaking One Ring of Power and declare that they had to travel to Mount Doom or whatever to destroy it. He wouldn’t put it past him, the freaking nerd-angel.

There is writing on the inside, Dean realises after a moment. Cas got him a fucking engraving. If it says something soppy then Dean is going to either laugh or cry or both. _To Dean, from Castiel_ , it reads in neat cursive.The unoriginal son of a bitch. Dean smiles warmly. 

He looks down at the ring he already wears, his father’s plain silver wedding band. As always, it sits on the ring finger of his right hand, because nothing stops you hooking up like a wedding ring on your ring finger because _hello_ , married, cheating douchebag vibes. Dean wants to wear Cas’ ring, ‘cause it really is a really nice present, and Dean has (mostly) stopped freaking out now. For a moment he thinks about putting it on his other hand, but that would be as bad of a cock-block as a wedding ring. Promise rings pretty much are wedding rings anyway. Except for this one obviously. This one is a platonic-promise-ring, but he doesn’t really feel like explaining to every girl ever that he isn’t actually taken, he just has a weird-ass best friend who is actually a literal angel and doesn’t understand human boundaries and bought him a promise ring for Christmas because he wanted him to stop being an emotionally-reserved dick. So basically, he isn’t wearing any ring on his left hand ever.

Before he can think about how much it goes against everything that Dean’s always said to himself about the value of family heirlooms, he pulls John’s ring off of his finger, shoves it in his pocket and replaces it with the promise ring. Huh, it fits perfectly. Knowing Cas, he probably has a built in ring-size-detector. 

Dean feels kind of bad about the quality of the present he gave Cas. Cas must have spent over five-hundred dollars on him, and Dean bought him a phone, and it’s not even a good one. But it’s not his fault he sucks. 

But one way or another, it’s time for Dean to stop being a girl about all this and go apologise to Cas and talk to him about his feelings. Or maybe that means it’s time for Dean to _start_ being a girl, he isn’t sure. But feelings! Dean pushes himself up off the bed, pulls his socks on and begins the forty-second hike-that-could-possibly-kill-him-because-appologising-isn’t-easy down stairs. _Feelings_! 

***

“This is very complex,” Cas says as Dean walks into the kitchen. 

Dean glances down at the table in front of Cas and coughs. “Are you reading Sam’s book?”

“He said I might benefit from it more than him.” By benefit Dean guesses Sam meant ‘find it less nauseating.’

“I’m sure he did,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Want some coffee?” he asks as he puts the kettle on. So far this is a whole lot less-awkward than Dean had thought it’d be. He isn’t gonna argue.

“No thank you,” Cas replies, not looking up from the book.

Dean walks over and skims over the page Cas is reading. If only vampires were that lame in real life, his job would be so much easier. “How is watching someone sleep sexy?”

“I like watching you sleep, Dean,” Cas says, meeting his eyes and frowning.

And Dean isn’t going to freak out again. Angel of the Lord with zero boundaries. Instead of blushing or running off or doing anything stupid, he claps Cas on the shoulder and says, “And that is really creepy, which proves my point.” 

“You’re peaceful when you’re sleeping,” Cas continues, seemingly oblivious to how uncomfortable Dean is right now, “even when you’re having nightmares you are still so… simple. Humans are much easier to understand in sleep; their mind processes things how they are, showing their true fears and desires.” 

Dean coughs and goes back over to the kettle. The kettle isn’t going to do creepy dream psychoanalysing. “That’s nice Cas,” he says as he makes himself a mug of coffee (two sugars and a bit ‘o whiskey, because as the ancient proverb states, _it’s always 6pm somewhere_.) 

Dean walks over and sits opposite Cas. Here comes the tricky part. _I’m sorry_ , Dean thinks loudly. Maybe if he just shouts in his head then he won’t actually have to say anything and Cas will hear him, because what are mind-reading powers good for if not helping out the emotionally-clogged. Before Dean can actually say anything out loud, Cas reaches over and grabs his right hand, nearly making Dean spill coffee everywhere. “What’re you –”

“You’re wearing your ring,” Cas says, holding up Dean’s hand, which looks pathetic and limp. Dean remembers he has muscles and pulls his hand away.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “I am. I… I like it.  It’s a great present. Thanks Cas.” 

“I’m glad,” Cas smiles, but then drops his gaze and frowns. “I was under the impression that it had offended you. I didn’t mean to imply that there was anything… romantic between us.”

“I know,” Dean says, taking a sip of his coffee and scowling when it burns his mouth. “I just overreacted. It’s really nice though. I freaked out because –” Dean clamps his mouth shut. He had been about to say ‘because I was gonna kiss you yesterday’ but that is a piece of information that doesn’t need to be known to anyone. _Ever_. “You know,” he finishes lamely.

Cas frowns, because he probably doesn’t ‘know’, but then his expression loosens and he looks back up at Dean. “Thank you,” he says. “But I won’t be offended if you choose not to wear it, because of the implication it carries.”

“Cas, it’s fine. Seriously.” 

It’s silent for a moment, and just as Dean is starting to feel really damn fidgety and awkward, Cas says, “It’s a promise.”

Because Dean is an idiot, he replies, “What?” 

“The promise ring. It was a promise that…” Cas smiles sourly and looks down at the now-forgotten novel. “Never mind. You’ll just find it amusing.”

Dean feels a pang of guilt. Ok, so maybe he does have a history of laughing and/or yelling at emotions, but hey, he can change. “I won’t,” Dean reassures him, “spit it out. But don’t get soppy or anything.”

“I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you,” Cas says, looking up and meeting Dean’s gaze, “that whatever happens I will protect you, because you need protecting, Dean. You are a brilliant hunter and an even better man, but you can’t carry the world on your shoulders and come away unscathed. I will share this burden with you, and even when I’m not an angel anymore –”

“Don’t talk like that, Cas, we’re gonna find a way to fix you,” Dean interrupts.

“Please let me finish. Even when I’m not an angel anymore, I will be your guardian and your friend and everything that you need me to be.” Cas frowns and looks away, but then his eyes slide back to Dean. “There isn’t a way to help me, but I promise you that it isn’t because of anything you are or aren’t doing. I beg you Dean, _let it go_. I don’t want you to hurt yourself, so _please_ let it go.”

Dean swallows. Shit, how does he reply to that without a) sounding douchy, b) starting a fight or c) sounding pathetic. Maybe he doesn’t, and so he goes for option c). “I can’t let it go Cas. I need you.”

“And you’ll have me!” Cas says, sounding frustrated. “You’ll always have me, but soon I won’t be your angel anymore.”

“You’re not _my_ angel, Cas.” People need to stop doing that. Cas isn’t _his_.  

Cas squints. “I’ve been your angel since the minute I lay a hand on you in Hell, Dean. I chose to be your angel, and even when I’ve fallen, I will still be your human.” 

“Cas...” Dean doesn’t know what to say. His life used to be so simple; there was black and there was white, but now everything is shades of grey with the occasional spark of stupid, bright, Castiel blue.

“Dean, please just listen to me,” Cas says sharply, staring at him with said stupid-bright-blue eyes. “I _promise_ you that everything will be okay. Just let me be here for you; let yourself be helped.”

Dean is about to reply with a sharp ‘I don’t need help,’ but then he remembers that, yeah, he kind of fucking does. This whole conversation is messed up. His whole fucking _life_ is messed up. He can’t look Cas in the eyes anymore. “How long’ve you got left?” he asks, trying to change the topic.

“Two months,” Castiel says dryly. “Exactly.” 

Fuck. To be honest, it’s longer than Dean would have thought, but when said aloud like that, two months sounds tiny and pathetic. Dean knows that there is plenty that can happen in two months; you could travel the world, fall in love, get married, fall out of love, be diagnosed with cancer, die in a car crash… hell, Dean and Sam have ended and saved the world in less time. But Cas isn’t some generic human with a terminal illness that will render him a doornail before the start of March; he’s an angel, and soon he won’t be. “Crap, _Cas_ , we gotta do something,” Dean says. 

“Dean,” Castiel says sharply. “There isn’t anything we _can_ do, beyond make the most of these last few months I have as an angel. I can help you and Sam hunt, and then when my time is up, we can continue on as we were. We’ve had this conversation countless times.”

Dean sighs and leans forward to rest his elbows on the table; brushing against something and making it fall to the floor. It’s the polaroid from last night, he realises as he picks it up. “You look really happy in this picture, Cas,” he says, glancing up at the angel, whose face is drawn and sad and couldn’t be more dissimilar to the photograph. Maybe bubbly, unexplained happiness is a side-effect of Christmas, and then once the celebration is over, the world falls back in the toilet and their lives turn to shit. They remember all the reasons they have to be miserable. 

“I _was_ happy,” Cas says, eyes not moving from Dean. “I still am happy, but last night…” he looks away, and Dean can’t tell if he is smiling or frowning, “it was the first time I’ve ever had real family.”

“What about in Heaven? They were your family.” 

“They were my fellow soldiers. That was not family. I had no family, Dean,” Cas says firmly. 

“You do now though?” Dean didn’t mean that to sound like a question. Of course has family now, he has…

“You,” Cas says, and for a moment Dean thinks he had been reading his mind, and is doing some weird I-can-finish-your-mental-sentences-just-to-show-off thing. But then Cas goes on to say, “I have you. And if you’ll have _me_ , I hope I will always have you.”

Cas meets his eyes, and Dean can’t look away. He feels a lump in his throat, and if he weren’t as good at making bad-thoughts go away as he is, he would almost be thinking about kissing Cas again. But he isn’t, so it’s okay. Instead, his gaze is locked with Cas’, neither of them looking away or blinking. “Don’t be stupid, Cas,” he says, sounding much less masculine and in control than he would like to, “of course you’ll always have me. It’s what friends are for right.” Dean smiles and tries to pretend that as the seconds tick by, he isn’t slowly drowning, because he is, and he can feel his lungs about to burst and the world about to turn that stupid, bright blue. And Castiel, being Castiel, doesn’t look away or blink, or do anything to help. Instead, he tilts his head to the side and smiles slightly, and before he can react, Dean is officially drowned. 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Dean is staring at Castiel in a way he doesn’t understand. He looks broken, but not in the way Castiel has grown accustomed to. He doesn’t look angry or sad, simply _shattered_. His gaze is soft, and although he isn’t smiling, his eyes are crinkled, like he is looking at a light that is too bright, but he can’t bring himself to look away.  

Castiel feels it again, the bubble in the pit of his stomach that he only ever feels around Dean, the need to see him happy and be there for him for as long as their mortal lives will allow. Castiel doesn’t know the name of this feeling – or even if there is one – but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t need to put a word to it. All he needs is Dean. There is so much that Castiel doesn’t know about the world, and so much he does. He knows that human lives are built on pain and loss, and already, Castiel has lost much. But there is also so much beauty, and this beauty is in people like Dean. 

Suddenly, Dean is blushing and standing up, walking over to the sink to rinse out his now-empty coffee mug. He clears his throat and leans back against the counter, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. 

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, squinting at Dean. 

“Yeah,” he replies gruffly. “Yeah, I’m good. I just… I’m fine.”                                                     

Dean has a never ending repertoire of ways to confuse Castiel. He can, as the expression goes, see the cogs in Dean’s head turning. “Are you sure?”

“Yes! I’m good!” Dean snaps. “Shut up, Cas.”

Castiel squints at Dean, and Dean squints back. “Shut up,” Dean mumbles again after a moment, drawing his gaze away. 

Castiel frowns and turns back to his novel. If Dean isn’t going to talk to him then he isn’t going to force him to. Not that he could if he wanted to; no one forces Dean Winchester to do anything. 

The back door slams shut and a grime-covered Sam walks into the kitchen. “Are you two talking again?” he asks warily, shoving past a disgruntled looking Dean to the sink. 

“We weren’t ever not talking,” Dean says, giving Sam a returning push on the shoulder.

Sam stares blankly at Dean, who after a beat throws his hands up and grunts. “Fine,” he says. “Yes. We’re talking. We’re always talking.”

Sam continues to scrub at the car-grease and dirt on his hands – presumably from helping Bobby in the yard – not so much as glancing at Dean. “I didn’t know that hiding in your room – _Bobby’s room_ – counted as talking, but okay.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles. 

“Hey, I’m just glad you and Cas are talking,” Sam says defensively.

“You’re talking,” Dean mutters. Castiel thinks that as far as insults go, that was relatively weak. Communication isn’t his strongest point, and apparently, nor is it Dean’s. 

Sam seems to think so too, because he rolls his eyes and flicks water at Dean, who writhes and slaps Sam across the back of the head. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam smiles. He turns off the tap, the pipes squealing softly. “So what happened, or am I not allowed to know?”

“Why wouldn’t you be allowed to know?” Castiel asks, confused. 

Sam shrugs. “I dunno, you might have had a _private_ conversation or something. Wouldn’t want to intrude.” 

Dean glares at Sam. “Shut up.” 

“You need to stop saying that,” Sam says, pulling out the chair opposite Castiel. “So… yes or no?”

“Yes!” Dean exclaims. “Wait…no,” he glances over at Castiel, and then over to Sam. “What was the question?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asks slowly.

“What happened where?” Dean shrugs. “There ain’t nothing to tell. I freaked out last night because I’m a jerk –”

“Yeah, you kinda are sometimes,” Sam adds, receiving a glare from Dean.

“And then this morning I said sorry to Cas and now we can be freaking Batman and Robin again or whatever,” he finishes firmly. “Just so we’re clear,” he points to Cas, “I’m Batman.” 

Castiel frowns. “You’re not a… bat man.” 

Dean lets out an exasperated ‘huh’ and shakes his head. “Holy crap. You don’t know who _Batman_ is?”

“Should I?” Castiel asks. He guesses that it is some pop-culture reference, maybe a band like Metallica, or else a character. 

“Should you…” Dean huffs. “Freaking _Batman_ , dude. Bruce Wayne, crime fighter and epic badass.”

“So he’s a fictional character?” Castiel clarifies. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean says slowly. “Dude, I need to educate you.”

“Why don’t you?” Castiel asks, looking up at Dean.

“Why don’t I what?” 

“Educate me. I am going to need to know about these things; Batman, Metallica,” Castiel tilts his head. “There is much about earth that I don’t know. I have existed for millennia, but this knowledge is nothing compared to what you could teach me. Educate me on how to be human.”

Dean coughs awkwardly and glances over at Sam, who is just staring at his brother with a raised eyebrow. “Fine,” he says after a moment, not looking at either of them. “Fine, I’ll teach Cas how to be a _real boy_.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel frowns.

Dean groans and hangs his head. “ _Pinocchio_ reference, man.”

“It’ll be fun,” Sam reassures him, standing up and clapping him on the shoulder before walking swiftly out of the room. “And good luck,” he calls behind him. Dean shoots a rude gesture in the direction of the door. 

“Son of a bitch,” he exclaims angrily, slapping his hands against the counter. Castiel sends a questioning look in Dean’s direction. Dean sighs and says gruffly, “So let Operation Human commence.”

“Where do we start?” Castiel asks. He isn’t sure that there even is a ‘start.’ He has never learnt to be human before, and Dean, obviously, has never _taught_ anyone to be human either. Castiel supposes they’ll do what they always do and make it up as they go along. 

Dean raises an eyebrow and takes a step closer. “First step?” he asks, grabbing up the _Twilight_ novel. “We burn this book.” 

Castiel doesn’t know why they need to burn his present to Sam, but Dean seems adamant, and so with a pulse of grace, the book nothing more than ashes on the kitchen floor. Dean chuckles and meets Castiel’s eyes. “Cas, you’re awesome,” he says earnestly. 

“You’re _awesome_ as well, Dean,” Castiel replies, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. 

Dean snorts and gives him an amused look. “Just stop,” he says, but his eyes are bright and happy. Dean is, Castiel decides, the most ‘awesome’ person he has ever met.  

* * *

Sam is going stir-crazy. Again. He hasn’t left the house in several days (again) and it’s making him uncomfortable (again). Well, the uncomfortableness may be partially to do with the amount of eye-sex Dean and Castiel seem to be having and less to do with the lack of _anything_. 

It’s the 27th of December, and Dean and Cas are having an intense discussion about cheeseburgers verses chicken-burgers, Dean vowing that cheeseburgers are better ‘just because they freaking are’ and Cas claiming that they are both virtually the same, the nutrients and health-risks only being microscopically different. Every now and then, they will just stop talking and stare intently into each other’s eyes and _it’s driving Sam mad_. It has been weeks since the two of them could be in the same room without said room bubbling with unresolved sexual tension. If something doesn’t happen soon (by something Sam means it either all blows over or they _do something_ about it) then Sam thinks he is going to scream. The worst part is, they don’t even seem to realise how goggle-eyed they go around each other.

It’s kind of pathetic.

And so, because Sam needs out _now_ , and Dean could probably do with a hunt as well, Sam browses the internet until he finds something that sounds like Their Kind of Thing. 

Dean and Castiel are engaged in another round of intense staring, and so Sam clears his throat, making them snap out of whatever it is they had going on, before speaking. “How do you feel about Illinois?” 

“I don’t feel any particular favouritism toward it,” Castiel says flatly. “It is much the same as any other state.”

Dean side-eyes Castiel, but doesn’t bother replying to him. “You found a case?” he asks Sam.

“I think so,” Sam replies, scrolling down the webpage he has open. “Woman was killed inside a locked house with no signs of forced entry and nothing stolen and the police have no leads.”

“Vengeful spirit?” Dean asks.

“That’s what my money’s on.”

“What’d you think the odds are that this’ll pass smoothly?” Dean asks, leaning back in his chair.

Sam shrugs. “It should just be a normal salt-and-burn.” But he understands where Dean is coming from; it has been weeks – _months_ even – since they had a simple, no-complications hunt. But maybe all that is over now. The Apocalypse has apparently been averted, so maybe now they can regain an ounce of simplicity and do nothing but hunt ghosts and witches and the other Greatest Hits of the Monster World. 

Dean snorts and shrugs. “Maybe it will be. So what’d you say, Cas, ready to become an honorary Ghostbuster?” 

“I understand that reference,” Cas says, looking and sounding quite proud of himself, which if Sam is honest is actually quite endearing (but don’t get him wrong, he is leaving all the Cas/romance stuff to Dean). “You were juxtaposing us to the characters in the film _Ghostbusters_ , even though their methods were highly unrealistic and would be ineffective at removing spirits.” 

“Yea, thanks for that, Cas,” Dean says flatly. 

“When will we be leaving?” Castiel asks Sam, who has already closed his laptop and tucked it away in his leather satchel.

“We’ll let Bobby know, pack up, and then we should be able to be out of here by three.”

“You know,” Dean says to no one in particular, staring wistfully out the window like some singer in an eighties-rock music video, “I kinda enjoyed doing nothing for a while; it was a good change from always nearly dying.”

“You’re not going to die, Dean. I’ve told you; I’ll always look after you,” Castiel says, and then him and Dean engage in another bout of soulful staring. Sam rolls his eyes and goes to pack his duffel, leaving his brother and his brother’s angel alone with their annoying, unresolved sexual tension. 

***

“Dean, I’m cold,” Castiel says two nights later, while they stand in the Peaceful Slumber Graveyard, Barrybrook, Illinois, Dean and Sam sweaty from digging up a grave and Castiel as pristine as ever, having done absolutely _nothing_ to help except stare contemplatively at the stars. 

“Cas, there’s a fire right in front of you. How can you be cold?” Dean asks. 

“It’s a burning body. I believe that warming myself on a burning corpse would classify as undignified, for both myself and the deceased.”

“Well the dead chick killed two people so she deserves it.”

“I don’t want to warm myself on a dead person. The smell of it is unpleasant.” 

“Jesus, Cas. You’re such a girl,” which is how Dean ends up giving Castiel his coat, completely ignoring the looks that Sam is giving him.

Sam will repeat: his brother is kind of _really_ pathetic sometimes. 

When there is nothing but ash left, they fill the six-foot hole where the body of a very angry dentist from the 1980’s had been buried and go to leave, the moon being bright enough that they don’t need torches. “You say a word about the coat thing to anyone and I swear I will cut your balls off while you sleep,” Dean threatens Sam as they stand by the Impala. Sam just gives him an incredulous look and slides into the passenger seat. 

Before they start driving, it is apparently compulsory that Dean and Castiel stare at each other in the rear-view mirror for a few minutes. Sam is tempted to just push Dean out of the car and take the wheel himself, because he is tired, his shoulders hurt and there is only so much staring two people can do in one night before it gets ridiculous, and that line was crossed a long, long time ago. 

But then Dean, as he does every time, coughs awkwardly and looks away. He turns up the radio and they drive off into the night, probably coming across as extremely badass all ‘round, with their big, black car, loud mullet-rock and stony-faced, stoic driver. But then Dean glances tentatively at Castiel and any façade they previously maintained comes tumbling down in a tidal-wave of pathetic, tension-filled gayness. 

* * *

“Eat,” Dean says, shoving a burger and fries at Cas and sliding into the booth next to him. It’s lunch-time the day after their most recent ghost-gank and the corresponding coat-thing. They sit in a crowded diner in the middle of whatever the hell the town they’re in is called, Sam munching away at some leafy, green rabbit-food wrap and staring at Dean and Castiel with a raised eyebrow. He’s been doing that a lot lately, and Dean is tempted to shave his eyebrows off because it’s really fucking annoying. 

“I don’t require food as nourishment,” Castiel frowns; looking down at the burger like it might eat _him_ instead of the other way around.

“Yeah, well humans do, so _bon app_ _é_ _tit._ ” 

Castiel lifts his head and looks at Dean, who gives him a reassuring nod. Cas stares at Dean for a while longer (probably thinking of ways to kill him if the cheeseburger is poisoned, which it isn’t) and then looks back down at the now-probably-going-cold food. Dean isn’t sure how he ended up with a best friend who’s scared of burgers, but hey, it gives him something to laugh at. 

Castiel reaches down and grabs the cheeseburger, looking frankly terrified. Dean is dying because _it’s a fucking cheeseburger_. Sam also looks on the edge of laughing, and Cas is just alternating between glaring at them and the food. “Cas, seriously,” Dean chokes out, clapping Mr I-Refuse-To-Eat-The-Scary-Cheeseburger on the back. “I’ll make you sit outside tonight.” One of the major minuses of Cas not needing to sleep, is he will just _sit there_ all night watching Dean fucking sleep because of how ‘peaceful’ he looks or something. 

“But it’s cold outside at night,” Cas says. Dean is trying hard not to think about the fact that Cas gets cold now. He is also trying hard not to think about the fact that he gave him his coat last night like a fucking teenager on a fucking date (to a graveyard to burn some bones and stop an angry ghost). Thing-He-Is-Trying-Not-To-Think-About Number #1, worries Dean a hell of a lot, because it makes the whole situation all that more _real_. Not that Dean hasn’t been freaking the fuck out about Cas falling already, because he has, and anyone with eyes and/or ears can see and/or hear that, but up until now, it’s just sort of been a thing that’s happening, not a thing that’s _happening_. 

“Exactly. So eat,” Dean says to Cas, moving his hand away from his back, because Sam is staring at said hand like its freaking Jesus or something.

Cas glares at him, Dean raises his eyebrows, and then slowly and solemnly, like he is signing his own death warrant, Cas brings the cheeseburger toward his face.

Cas takes a bite and as he chews, his eyes widen almost comically. “ _Dean_ ,” he croaks around the mouthful of food, and then makes a noise that sounds too fucking pornographic to be used after Dean’s name by a male angel eating a cheeseburger in a crowded diner in Illinois in front of his stupid little brother. 

Cas swallows and turns to Dean, looking completely dumbfounded. “Dean,” he says more evenly. 

Dean clears his throat. “You liked it then?”

Cas nods and stares at Dean like he’s Jesus (Dean is going to have to check in the mirror later to make sure he isn’t Jesus, because that’s the second time in five minutes). Without saying another word, he turns away and picks up his burger, taking another bite, chewing, swallowing and then smiling wider than Dean’s ever seen him. “This makes me very happy,” he says, looking at the burger the way a person would normally look at their wife. Maybe he should organise a wedding for Cas and the cheeseburger. The thought of Cas in a tuxedo makes Dean chuckle, and then both Sam and Cas are staring at him, obviously confused.

“Cas could marry the burger,” Dean tries to explain, holding back another laugh, because he’s fucking hilarious, but he is just met by two blank looks. Dean huffs and glares at Sam, because odds are it’s somehow his fault.  

“I’m not going to marry the cheeseburger,” Cas tells him firmly.

“I know, but it’s funny cause…” Dean trails off, because Sam and Cas are still both looking at him like he has something wrong with his thought processing (which he doesn’t thank-you-very-much.) “Never mind,” he sighs.

Cas gives him one last contemplative look before turning back to his burger, making the most fucking _sexual_ noises Dean has ever heard outside of a Casa Erotica film. Cas would be the kind of person who moans while eating. Dean makes a mental note to never bring him out for food again. Freaking angels. 

An elderly couple at the booth behind them shoot them a disgusted, offended look before standing up and moving over to the other side of the diner. Dean coughs awkwardly. “Uh, Cas?” he says, pulling the burger out of his hands. “You don’t… you don’t make those noises in public, man.” 

Cas frowns. “Why?”

“Because…” Dean tries to find a delicate way to put it, but then gives up and says, “because you sound like you’re having sex with someone.”

“They’re simply noises of enjoyment,” Cas sounds affronted, like its somehow _Dean’s_ fault that the rest of the diner probably think Cas is getting a hand-job under the table. Dean shuffles in his seat again, because now he can _feel_ everyone judging them. It’s not their fault Cas doesn’t understand diner-etiquette.

“They’re sex noises,” Dean deadpans.  

Cas frowns. “Oh. I’ll stop if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“If it makes me…” Dean sighs exasperatedly. “Can you not feel people looking at us?” Dean doesn’t have a problem with being in the spotlight, but when that spotlight is the result of a seemingly-orgasming Cas, then it’s a whole different story. “Plus it does kinda make me uncomfortable, ‘cause those aren’t noises I want to hear, Cas. Save them for some girl.”

“I don’t plan to fornicate with any women,” Cas says, sounding like he’s talking about the weather.

“You will one day, Cas,” Dean says, clapping him on the back. “Until then, stop with the porn noises and eat your burger.” Cas tilts his head at Dean, staring at him and through him and inside him all at the same time, which will never fail to be the most disconcerting feeling. _Freaking angels_. 

Without saying another word, Cas turns back to his burger and manages to eat without making any sex-sounds. Dean eats his own food (which he may or may not have forgotten about) and Sam continues to quietly sit there and stare at them like a creepy, silent, Sasquatch-monk. 

And thus Dean managed to teach Cas to eat food like a human, only scaring off one elderly couple and making a few dozen diner-patrons think there was some freaky, public three-way orgy going on over at their table. Dean supposes that’s a win. 


	15. Chapter Fourteen

“You know how we did Christmas this year?” Sam says on the drive back to the motel.

Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Uh, yeah, Sam, I do know how we did Christmas this year. Kinda hard to forget.” For one, Dean doesn’t have amnesia and it was literally four days ago, and secondly, Cas gave him a promise ring and his head decided to be an idiot and briefly convince itself that he wanted to kiss Cas, so he isn’t gonna be forgetting it any time soon.

Sam shoots him a bitch-face, before saying, “Well anyway, I was thinking since we celebrated Christmas we could go the whole nine-yards and do New Year’s as well.” 

Dean blinks. “How do you _do_ New Years? Don’t you just get drunk?”

“Well yeah,” Sam shrugs, “but I was thinking we could do it properly.”

“Get drunk properly?” Dean gets drunk properly all the time thank-you-very-much. Is there even a way to be not-properly drunk?

“No, I mean celebrate it properly. I was thinking we could go to New York and watch the ball drop.”

“New York?” Dean asks flatly, and maybe he sounds like an idiot, but first Christmas and now _New York_. 

“Yeah, New York,” Sam clarifies. “I’ve wanted to spend New Year’s Eve in New York City ever since I was a kid.” Sam blushes and won’t meet Dean’s eyes, which is probably for the best considering he’s driving and needs to keep his eyes on the bitumen opposed to on Sammy. But with every passing day Dean becomes more and more convinced that his brother is actually a sister. It’d explain the hair. 

“So basically if I say no I’ll be crushing your childhood dream?” Dean asks.

Sam doesn’t dignify him with an answer, and just glares some more. “No,” Dean says after a moment.

“Why?” Sam asks, sounding like a whiny child. Dean swears to God (or, whoever) that he is the only adult out of the three of them. There is Samantha, who seems to be trying to turn their family into Apple-Pie-Normal-Civilian-Family No# 66, and then there’s Cas, who didn’t know what Metallica was, which pretty much speaks for itself. 

“’Cause I say so and New Year’s Eve is stupid,” Dean replies.

“You said that about Christmas.”

“Yeah, and I was right.” 

“You loved Christmas,” Sam points out, and so what if he has a point? Dean is stubborn and if he says New Year’s Eve is stupid then New Year’s Eve is stupid goddamn it. 

“Yeah, but that don’t mean I’m gonna love New Year’s Eve. I’ve got no problem with the alcohol and truck-loads of desperate, lonely women, but I don’t wanna go stand in a crowd of thousands of people in the middle of fucking winter when it’s _cold_. You tell him, Cas. It’ll be cold.” If he can get the angel to side with him then he wins. Whoever has the angel on their side always wins. 

“Actually,” Cas – the complete son of a bitch – counters, “it won’t be that cold, because standing in a crowd with that many people will help compensate.”

“You were supposed to agree with me,” Dean tells him, but of course Cas agrees with Sam. Cas always agrees with Sam, and it’s annoying because then Dean ends up getting roped into whatever stupid thing it is that they’re planning. “Tell you both what, how ‘bout we go find a bar somewhere instead and celebrate by ourselves? Somewhere not in New York.”

“Dean, come on, it won’t be that bad,” Sam says, and Dean can see he’s approximately five-seconds away from getting out the puppy-dog eyes. “You can go hook up afterwards, just take me to Times Square for midnight.”

“You can drive,” Dean reminds him, because he isn’t a fucking chauffeur. 

“But it won’t be the same without family,” Sam – or maybe Dean really should start thinking of him as Samantha – says. 

“No.” He doesn’t even care that much, he just isn’t gonna back down on an argument because he’s stubborn and if Sam wins then Sam wins, and rule-number-one is you never let Sam win.

“Fine. Cas will come with me, won’t you Cas?” Sam says, turning around to look at the angel. Semi-angel. Dean needs to make a mental note to stop calling him an angel because he isn’t anymore, as much as it fucking sucks.

“No offense, Sam,” Cas says, “but I would rather stay with Dean. He and I share a more profound bond.”

Dean is pretty sure he pulls off a bitch-face that could rival Sam’s. But hey, he’ll take his and Cas’ _profound bond_ over Sam winning any day. Plus, it’s not like it isn’t true. He doesn’t see Sam with a hand-print on his shoulder where he was _gripped tight and raised from perdition_ or wearing a platonic-promise-ring. 

Dean is about to start gloating when Cas adds, “Although I would like to experience the New Year’s Eve that Sam detailed. It sounds like it would be a rich cultural experience.” Just when he thought that Cas was gonna side with him on something. Maybe Sam and Cas agree on everything because they’re both such girls. _Samantha and Cassidy_. 

“What happened to our profound bond?” Dean huffs. 

“Our bond is still stronger, Dean, but I just think Sam is more rational and culturally aware,” Cas says, sounding apologetic. _Culturally aware_ Dean’s ass. Sam doesn’t even listen to good music. 

“Answer’s still no,” Dean replies.

“Why do you get to make the decisions?” Sam snaps.

“Because I’m the oldest!” Dean says, replicating Sam’s tone. It’s his responsibility to do the right thing and _make the decisions_. ‘Look after Sammy,’ John Winchester had told him, and he’ll die a million times more to stick to that. Maybe New Year’s Eve isn’t gonna kill Sammy, but it’s the principle behind the thing. 

“Technically, that’s Cas,” Sam points out sharply. 

“Yeah but he’s pretty much a stubbly toddler! No, offense Cas.”

“None taken,” Cas adds uncertainly. 

“I’m an adult as well, Dean,” Sam says, all reasonable and lawyer-like. If things had worked out differently, then Sam really would have gone far; top of his law firm, pretty wife, a couple of dogs, couple of mini-Sasquatches, the whole suburban shebang. 

“Yeah, but I’ve been an adult longer,” Dean counters.

“I’ve been an adult since I was eight. I never got a chance to be a kid; it was always hunting and trying not to piss off dad. I never got to do things that might make me happy!” Sam turns away from Dean and stares out the window at the passing scenery, his mouth a hard-set line.

Dean suddenly feels a hell-of-a-lot guilty. Sam’s right, he never got to be a kid. The closest either of them ever got was maybe watching cartoons on Saturday morning while dad finished wiping all traces of salt from the window-sills and making sure there were no knifes or guns tucked away in the couch cushions. Bobby gave them a few opportunities, but even then, they were fleeting and manufactured. They weren’t kids, they weren’t _people_ , and they still aren’t. They’re hunters, and hunters aren’t allowed to be people or have normal lives. It’s part of the rules.

But that’s bullshit because they’re Winchesters and when have they ever followed the rules?

“We should be in New York by midday on the thirty-first,” Dean says after a moment, giving Sam a gentle, good-natured shove. The number one rule is that family comes first, and if Sam is hurting because Dean’s being a dick, then Dean’s gonna stop being a dick and take the son of a bitch wherever the fuck he wants (within driving distance). 

Sam turns back around and smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Dean,” he says. “It means a lot.”

“Hey,” Dean holds up a hand. “I sense a chick-flick moment. What have I told you about chick-flick moments?”

“That we’re not allowed to have any,” Cas pipes up helpfully from the back-seat. “You find emotions confronting.” 

Ignoring the bit about finding emotions confronting (even if it is true, he doesn’t need Cas announcing it to the world) he glances over at Sam and then looks away again because the victorious look on his face is annoying. “So what made you change your mind?” he asks after a moment.

Dean shrugs. “I was thinking how hunters aren’t allowed to be normal people, and how it’s pretty much a rule, and then it occurred to me that we screw the rules every chance we get. We’ve both died, Sammy, and yet here we are. We were meant to end the fucking world, and again, look where we are now.” 

And then there is Castiel, but Dean doesn’t say this out loud, because Sam doesn’t need to be hearing his soppy, girly, slightly-embarrassing thoughts. Cas may as well represent every rule – whether it be sanctioned by Heaven, Hell or simply the fundamentals of the fucking universe – that they’ve completely ignored and shoved right out the window. He disobeyed God for them, broke the number one law of being an angel, and then proceeded to put Dean back together, despite every rationality saying it was impossible. Dean knows he’s shattered inside. Some days he doesn’t even feel like a person anymore, just an empty shell of anger and guilt and absolute confusion, but Cas doesn’t seem to care. He’s rebuilding Dean, even though no one should have that patience. No one should even _care_ that much.

The universe, it seems, runs on a specific series of rules, these being written out in plain black-and-white since before the beginning of everything. These rules were created to maintain order – people die and they stay that way, you follow your destiny because that’s what Heaven tells you to do, you stick to the basic criteria of your chosen existence and don’t dare stray from that, because it’s what’s _right_ – but so far, they’ve done nothing but tear up the rule-book, kick destiny right in the face and change _everything_ , just because they can. And maybe they’ve been wrong, maybe their lives _are_ chaotic and uncertain, but they’re _good_ and Dean wouldn’t change it for the world. 

The most remarkable part though is not that they’ve disobeyed at every twist and turn, but that they’ve so far managed to come out in one piece. They all have things eating away at them, and maybe there’s a rule out there saying they should be dead, or at the very least unable to go on, but here they are walking and talking and doing their fucking best at being people. Cas is all of this; he used to be the poster-boy for following the rules laid out to him, but then he disobeyed in a way that Sam and Dean couldn’t have, even if they tried. He went against all the basic rudiments of his existence to save them, and now when he should have, by all rights, been killed, he’s sitting in the back of the Impala staring at Dean with those stupid, wide blue eyes. 

So maybe TheRules go deeper than just ‘we can’t do New Years because we’re hunters’ but what’s one more notch in their metaphorical bedpost of fuck-the-universe? Dean isn’t even sure if he makes sense – hell, he confuses himself sometimes, and he lives in his brain – but he does know that if he can, he’s gonna find the rule-book and set it on fire, so that there’s nothing left except choice and free-will. 

“Team Free-Will,” he decides. “That’s us. We fuck up the rules and don’t look back.”

Cas meets Dean’s eyes in the mirror, looking contemplative. “Free-will used to be a prerogative, then I was given it and didn’t know how to use it, but now…” Cas smiles, “now I am going to – as you said – fuck up the rules with you, starting with accompanying you to New York City for the New Year’s Eve celebrations, despite the apparent law that hunters don’t have fun.” 

“We’ll have so much fun the rule-book will explode,” Dean says, unable to keep a grin from creeping onto his face. 

Then Sam, who is also smiling, but not as widely as Dean or Cas, ruins the moment by asking, “So what time should we get to Times Square?” but Dean doesn’t mind, because he’s now stupidly more self-assured, and it’s all the result of his little-brother’s idea to do something nice. For one reason or another, he now knows that in the future, if there’s another chance to break one of the universe’s stupid rules, then he’s gonna take it and they’re gonna rip up every chapter in the book, and leave the future wide open for them to shape as they want. Team Free-Will: one ex-blood junkie, one broken hunter with nothing to give and his falling angel, and the world can go get screwed. 

* * *

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says the next morning while Sam is off brushing his teeth in a road-side bathroom. They were driving until around eleven-o’clock last night, and then claiming his eyes were about to fall out and that he’d be fucked if he was going to drive twenty miles to the next town, Dean had pulled over and promptly fallen asleep, curled up under his leather jacket in the front-seat of the Impala. 

“Yes Dean?” Castiel asks, turning around from where he’d been watching a bee buzz lazily in and out of a hollowed log, its movements slow and laboured from the cold. 

“I was thinking,” he says slowly, “I don’t actually know anything about you.”

Castiel frowns. “You know almost all there is to know about me, Dean.” 

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, “but I don’t actually know much about _you_.”

“I don’t understand.” Dean knows him better than any person, or angel, ever has and probably ever will.

“I mean, you’ve sorta got that whole ‘riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma’ thing going on,” he tries to explain, but Castiel still doesn’t understand. There are, of course, things he hasn’t told Dean, but the majority of these things are memories and stories that would take days to tell in full. Dean knows everything that matters. He must see Castiel’s confusion because he elaborates. “What kinda music and stuff d’you like? What’s your favourite season and colour and animal and just stupid little things like that.”

Castiel thinks for a moment. He is not partial to a particular one of any of those things. “Green,” he decides. “My favourite colour is green.” To be specific, the green of Dean’s eyes; not quite light, not quite dark, like the trees at the end of spring, lost their vibrancy but still bright and calming and _beautiful_. The green of Dean’s eyes is beyond description, Castiel thinks. It is like trying to find words to describe the beginning of the universe, or the majesty of an angel’s wings, or the last rays of sunlight hitting the bonnet of the Impala as they speed down the highway, windows rolled down and the sounds of Dean’s laughter carrying for miles. There are no words that can do it full justice, because it is constantly outshining itself. 

Dean blinks with those amazing, green eyes and the world is put back into motion. “Well that’s a start,” he says. “Usually the first thing you find out when you meet a person is stupid, trivial things like that. You don’t get to talking about anything beyond your favourite so-and-so ‘till you’ve known them for a while.”

“Why?” Castiel asks. “Surely it’s more important to share the things that matter and shape the person opposed to trivialities.” 

“Well, yeah, but I guess learning that stuff helps you come to trust a person. You don’t just go instantly baring your soul to someone.”

“You did for me.”

Dean frowns contemplatively, and then looks over at Castiel. “Didn’t really have a choice there though, did I? You could literally see into my soul.”

“I didn’t learn your favourite colour,” Castiel observes. “I learnt your history and who you are, but I know nothing about the trivial things.” 

“In that case,” Dean says, taking a step forward and grabbing Castiel’s hand in a firm handshake, “hi, I’m Dean Winchester, I’m an Aquarius, I like rock music, pie and busty-Asian-beauties-dot-com.”

“I know who you are,” Castiel frowns, looking down at the hand Dean clasps. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know, but I was introducing myself and going through all the trivial stuff.”

“But I already knew all that about you,” Castiel pauses. “Tell me something about yourself that I don’t know.”

“Like _what_?”

Castiel smiles slightly. “What’s your favourite season and colour and animal, stupid little things like that.”

“Hey,” Dean says, hitting Castiel softly on the shoulder and smiling, “don’t turn my words back on me.”

“My apologies,” Castiel replies, and he believes that what he is doing now would constitute as teasing. 

“Shut up,” Dean says, but he’s still smiling, which Castiel takes to mean he should not in fact _shut up_. 

“So?” Castiel presses.

Dean chuckles. “Okay, my favourite season would probably be Fall, ‘cause it’s cold enough to wear jeans but warm enough that we aren’t freezing our asses off every time we go outside. My favourite animal?” Dean shrugs. “Maybe a tiger? I dunno, they’re pretty badass.”

“How can an animal be _badass_?” Castiel asks.

“It can be if it’s a tiger,” Dean insists. 

“What about your favourite colour?”

Dean exhales heavily. “I dunno.” Probably subconsciously, his eyes flicker to Castiel’s. “Blue,” he says quietly after a beat. “Blue is pretty nice.” 

At some point, Dean had moved closer to Castiel, there now being less than ten inches between their faces. Dean still clasps Castiel’s hand in his own, the handshake never quite being broken, the places where their skin touches warm in comparison to the biting winter air. Dean’s eyes flicker downwards and he licks his lips and then his gaze slowly rakes back up to meet Castiel’s, the green striking against his dark clothes and the bleak, December landscape. The tip of his nose is red and Castiel thinks that if he was to reach out, he could gently trace his freckles, count each one with his fingertip. And Dean would probably let him. Castiel’s other hand – the one not being held by Dean – begins to slowly move up, just to touch Dean, just so there is more physical contact. Castiel aches for it, and he doesn’t know why. All he knows is he needs to be close to Dean. 

But suddenly, Dean is shouting and flinching away from the sky, the moment dissipated in a millisecond. “ _Dude_ , a bird just went to the toilet on my shoulder,” he roars angrily. “ _Ugh_!” 

“I don’t see any birds,” Castiel says, looking up at the sky. “Are you sure?”

“ _Am I sure_?” Dean huffs. “Look at my fucking shoulder; that’s bird shit! Yes I’m freaking sure!” He groans and proceeds to try and wiggle out of his coat without touching it, and sure enough, there’s a white stain decorating his shoulder. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Here,” Castiel says, moving behind Dean, grabbing the lapels of his coat and pulling it off. Dean scowls at the coat, inserting the same hatred with which he would scowl at a monster.

“I hate birds,” he grumbles. “They just freaking shit wherever the fuck they want and don’t give a fuck if it’s on a car or a bench or a _fucking person_ ,” he shouts the last two words at the empty sky.

“I think the bird is gone,” Castiel points out.                                                                  

“WELL GOOD FOR IT BECAUSE IF IT WAS STILL HERE I’D FUCKING SHOOT IT,” Dean yells. 

“Why are you yelling if the bird is absent?”

“’Cause that was my best coat, man,” he groans.

“You get blood on it on a regular basis,” Castiel reminds him.

“Yea, but blood is different. This is bird shit. I’d choose blood over bird shit any day.”

“Isn’t that logic flawed?” Bird faeces are a lot cleaner and less likely to spread infection than blood.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, marching over to the Impala, hopping in the driver’s seat and turning the radio up loudly, sitting with his arms crossed and staring angrily out the windscreen.

Sam rounds the corner which led to the small, no likely unsanitary washrooms. “What’s wrong with Dean?” he asks, glancing worriedly at the car and his brother.

“A bird excreted itself on his shoulder,” Castiel says, holding up the coat. 

“And let me guess; now Dean is sulking because his _favourite coat is ruined_ and _he’d rather blood_?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers, guessing that this isn’t the first time this has happened. 

“C’mon,” Sam says, walking toward the car and gesturing for him to follow, “a bit of classic-rock and a few miles and he’ll be fine.” 

Castiel slides into the back seat, and when he sees a flash of green eyes in the rear-view mirror as Dean starts the ignition, his mind is brought back to that brief moment before the bird-incident. There was the strange, unexplainable bubble in the pit of his stomach, coupled with a desire to simply _touch_ Dean, not in a sexual way, but simply be near him. Castiel can still feel it – the fluttery, sick sensation – and he deduces that the cold must be making him ill. He would have thought it would be at least another month before he was able to get sick, but he doesn’t know what else it could be. He’ll have to ask Sam to buy him some medicine. 


	16. Chapter Fifteen

“You didn’t say before,” Dean says suddenly to Cas, breaking the comfortable silence as they pass the Indiana border into Ohio several hours later, “what kind of music d’you like?”

Dean sees Cas frown in the reflection of the rear-view mirror. “I don’t know.”

“How can’t you know?” Dean asks flatly, but then something occurs to him. “Wait, Heaven doesn’t have some law against music does it? You _have_ heard music before?”

Cas does the Cas equivalent of roll his eyes, a.k.a. furrow his brow and stare at Dean like he has a disability of the brain that is just really, really annoying and causes him to ask questions that any self-respecting three year-old would know the answer to. “Yes Dean,” he deadpans, “I have heard music before. I was a multi-dimensional, eon-old being and was, for a long time, stationed on Earth. I’ve heard more music in my lifetime then would be possible for you to hear in yours.” 

“Hey, no need to get all Smitey McSmiterton,” Dean says, holding his hands up for a second in a defensive gesture, and he’s glad that Cas decided to get out the ‘let’s condescend Dean’s perfectly reasonable questions’ mode when they are driving down a long, straight stretch of highway, because otherwise they could have just died. 

“If you’ve heard so much music, how can’t you know what you like?” Sam asks, and Cas, ‘cause he’s a bitch, doesn’t patronise Sam.

“It all sounds much the same to me,” he says plainly. “I can identify each individual instrument, each note and crescendo and anacrusis, but the basis of it all is the same, and it simply lacks appeal. All songs have the same underlying themes, love, betrayal, war, money, sadness, joy, things that as an angel, I had no concept of. Music has always been just another aspect of humanity that angels can’t appreciate.”

“But what about God-music?” Dean asks. He would have though Cas would dig God-music, or would have once upon a time anyway. Dean for one hates God-music. It makes his skin crawl. 

“ _God-music_?” Cas asks, looking and sounding confused.                                                             

“You know,” Dean says. “Choirs singing about His wonderful wonder and shitty pop groups singing about how Jesus is our friend and all that.” 

“That has never appealed to me either,” Cas says, and Dean huffs a noise that means something along the lines of ‘well that’s a fucking relief because God-music is even worse than hip-hop’ because it is. The only thing worse is hip-hop songs about Jesus. And witches. And witches singing hip-hop songs about Jesus. Dean hopes he _never, ever_ has to hear a witch singing a hip-hop song about Jesus because then he thinks he’ll definitely have to get earphones surgically implanted that channel his brain with nothing but rock music, 24/7 just to drown out the memory. 

“So you don’t like any music at all,” Dean clarifies.                              

“I appreciate its intricacy, but no, I don’t particularly like it.”

“Well in that case,” Dean says, inserting Led Zeppelin’s first album into the cassette player, “prepare to be officially introduced to art.” The first bars of _Good Times, Bad Times_ ring out and Dean drums his hands against the steering wheel in time with the music. “Led Zeppelin,” he states, raising his eyebrows at Cas. “Now sit back and enjoy the awesomeness.”

By the time the song reaches the first chorus, Dean is singing loudly, and even Sam is smiling (because no one can resist Led Zeppelin, it’s just fact). Castiel on the other hand looks like he’s sitting on a cactus.

“You right there, Cas?” Dean says loudly over the music, which obviously has to be played at a deafening volume otherwise the awesome cannot be fully appreciated. 

“I’m listening to the music,” he says, sporting his classic-Cas concentrating face. 

“You look kinda pained.”

“I’m listening to the instruments.” Cas frowns and meets Dean’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “The music is very similar to everything else you listen to.”

Dean lets out a noise of absolute fucking outrage because _did he just fucking insult Zeppelin_? “Did you just insult Zeppelin?” Dean asks, just for good measure, turning the music down slightly just in case he misheard. 

“I wasn’t insulting it, simply stating a fact,” Cas replies.

“Rule one, never insult Zeppelin,” Dean says, ignoring Mr _I Was Simply Stating A Fact_.

“I wasn’t insulting…” Cas trails off, squinting at Dean. “Is this one of those times I’m supposed to lie to make you happy?”

“No,” Dean says, because no one needs to lie to make him happy, at the same time Sam says ‘yes.’ 

“Hey!” Dean cries. “You don’t need to lie to make me happy. It’s fine if Cas doesn’t like Led Zeppelin.” It really, really isn’t because if Cas doesn’t like Led Zeppelin then before they know it he’ll be dressing in parachute pants and those stupid glasses with the slits on the eyes that are completely pointless because you can’t even see out of them. 

“I don’t not like Led Zeppelin,” Cas frowns. “I just find it much the same as everything else. Music doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Everyone likes some kind of music though,” Dean doesn’t-whine and says like a civilised, masculine monster hunter, “it’s just a people thing.” 

“I’m not people,” Cas says. “I was created an angel.” Dean thinks that Cas is being really careful with what he says, making sure he doesn’t mention falling or how he _was_ an angel and now isn’t. Dean appreciates it because it’s that little bit easier to ignore everything when it’s not shouting you in the face.

“But c’mon, isn’t there music in Heaven? Aren’t angels supposed to sing or something?” 

Castiel tilts his head. “The choirs of Heaven do not produce music as it is to humans. It would, I suppose, be the closest equivalent we have, but they don’t sing.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s more a medley of sensations, strings of angel-grace being plucked to create a particular image or story, but instead of seeing it, we feel it in a rush of colours and heat. All angels technically have this skill – I suppose it would be compared to singing – but some are much more adept than others. When the best ‘sang’, it would be like losing yourself to sensation and floating through space on nothing but the hum of contentment.” 

“That was beautiful Cas,” Dean says, “very poetic. I think I’m gonna cry.” It actually _was_ really nice, but poetry isn’t a thing that Dean does, because it’s for girls, gay guys and Sam. 

Cas glares at him, and in what’s probably supposed to be a quiet voice but is actually really loud because his voice box is probably the size of a watermelon if its anything compared to the rest of him, Sam says “I think you hurt his feelings.”

Dean makes a very-mature hand gesture at Sam and turns up the music even louder than it was before, and maybe feels a bit (a lot) proud when twenty minutes later he sees Cas tapping his foot to the beat of the music. Dean: 1, Everyone-Ever-Who-Even-Thought-He-Couldn’t-Make-Cas-Like-Good-Music-And/Or-Hated-On-Led-Zeppelin-Sam-Included: 0. 

* * *

“Did I mention how much I hate the city?” Dean asks agitatedly for the sixth time that hour. They’re stuck in traffic in the outskirts of Upper Manhattan, and with each passing minute, Dean is becoming more and more jumpy. 

“Dean, calm down,” Sam says soothingly, but Dean scowls and tells him to ‘fuck the fuck off because he’s concentrating on not killing anyone.’

Personally, Castiel finds the bustle of the big-city fascinating. There are people everywhere, all of them with different stories and different destinations, different views of the world and different things to make them get up in the morning. He could watch them for hours. He loves how tall the buildings are, the way that, over time, humans have followed the urge to always grow, always make things bigger and better and taller and now have ended up with hundreds of square miles of gigantic sky-scrapers. He finds it amazing how absolutely logic-defying humans are. For this many of them to exist in one place is extraordinary. There is crime and political discrepancy, but they still all exist as one, even if they don’t realise they are doing it. The cracked concrete and faded graffiti is beautiful, as are the weeds pushing their way up through the sidewalk and the peeling paint on the apartment doors. 

Castiel can see that Dean on the other hand prefers the peace of small towns and the middle of nowhere with just his brother, his car and his alcohol. Dean hates crowds. He feels like he’s getting lost, and not because he craves the spotlight, but because he detests it so much. He hates being the centre of attention and to be part of a group of people makes him feel uncomfortable and insecure, because he is, as he once said to Castiel, ‘the freak who people always turn away from and can’t look at because they can see how messed up he is.’ He feels like crowds suck away who is and he’s no longer Dean Winchester, saviour of the planet, but just some broken shell of a man, eaten up by the collective maw of society and then spat back out because he tastes too bitter. 

Dean thinks that Castiel can’t see how fragile his sense of self-worth is. It’s hanging on a thread, and there are so many things that make the thread fray. 

“Jesus fuck,” Dean snarls, hitting his hand against the steering wheel. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, leaning forward enough that he can rest a hand on Dean’s tensed shoulder, “you need to calm down.”

“Why?” he snaps.

“Because no matter how angry you get the traffic isn’t going to move any faster,” Castiel replies sharply. 

“It isn’t gonna move if I stay calm and do yoga or whatever either.” 

“But the time will pass less heavily.” If Dean gets angry, then the entire atmosphere will be tense and unpleasant, and it will be only a matter of time before he says something he regrets and starts an argument. 

Dean exhales heavily and tips his head back. “I freaking hate the city,” he mutters.

“I know,” Castiel squeezes his shoulder, and Dean turns his head to look at him, giving him a small smile.

Castiel tilts his head and returns the expression. It is remarkable how quickly Dean’s mood can change – he will go from happy to angry in an instant, and then, depending on the situation, back just as promptly. It is probably to do with his fast-adjusting warrior’s instincts. 

“Thanks Cas,” he says, lifting his right hand up and placing it over Castiel’s. He runs the pad of his thumb over Castiel’s, and he feels an unexplained shiver of something; something he can’t identify. It is probably down to his growing illness. 

Dean stares at Castiel, his face all loose features and softened lines, and Castiel stares right back, and he can’t help smiling. Dean makes him happy more than words can begin to explain. 

Sam clears his throat, deliberately not looking at either of them, his eyes locked on a white pick-up truck in the lane next to them. Dean quickly pulls his hand away, a blush creeping over his cheeks.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says gruffly. “Don’t hold my hand, okay?” 

Castiel frowns. Dean had been the one to ‘hold his hand,’ not the other way around. He could have easily waited for Castiel to move, but instead had prevented it. “Why?”

“Because dudes don’t hold hands with other dudes. If they’re like, _together_ , then they do, but not when they’re friends. It makes people think they’re together.”

“Oh,” Castiel replies. “I understand. My apologies.”

Dean huffs and goes back to staring at the road, but instead of looking angry, he now looks… _blank_. His face is completely empty of emotion, and even his eyes are dull and glazed over. Castiel believes that Dean was startled by the fact that others could misinterpret their relationship. Castiel likes touching Dean – holding his hand was very, very nice – but if it makes Dean uncomfortable then he will stop, even though both times it has happened, Dean’s been the one to begin it. But for the hunter’s sake, Castiel will pretend otherwise.

“It’s okay,” Dean says after a moment. “You don’t know what’s normal and what isn’t. Just… no more hand holding, alright?”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, and sinks back into the seat of the Impala. It is another half-an-hour before the traffic moves, every second as silent and heavy as the last. No one talks, but the air seems to be pregnant with unspoken words, except Castiel can’t tell what they are, and so instead of trying to understand, he stares out the window at the people in their cars and marvels at the complexity of humanity. 

Dean just sits there and eventually, his face goes from emotionless to scared. Dean, Castiel thinks, is the most complex person in the entirety of the human race. 

* * *

“Hey Sammy, check this out,” Dean says while they’re shopping for pie a few hours later, the traffic finally having let out (thank fucking God). Cas is waiting in the car because he didn’t want to ‘impair their shopping abilities’ or something. Dean is pretty sure he’s done something wrong somewhere, because Cas is suddenly really distant, but he can’t quite put his finger on _what_ it was. Really, there is any amount of places he could’ve fucked up. 

“What?” Sam asks, poking his head around the aisle shelf. 

Dean holds up yesterday’s newspaper. _City Worries for Citizens Safety_ it reads, which is always an attention grabber, especially when you’re in the line of work they’re in.

“What’s it say?”

“ _As the end of another month approaches_ ,” Dean reads, “ _the city and its people grow increasingly concerned. Over the course of the last year, the transition between one month to the next has brought a startling wave of disappearances. As of currently, the police have no leads_.” The rest is mostly a bunch of journalist mumbo-jumbo, but then one more passage catches Dean’s eye. “ _All that has been disclosed is that at the homes of the victims – because this is what they obviously are – ancient coins have been found, one for each missing person. The police have been unclear on the origins of these coins, but could it be the mark of a serial killer_?” 

“So?” Sam asks, shrugging. 

“So? Disappearances on the last day of every month for the last year? Zero police-leads? Ancient coins? Doesn’t set off any alarm bells?” Maybe Sam hit his head really, really hard and it’s impairing his ability to think properly, because this is sure as fuck worth investigating. 

Sam shrugs again. “I guess, but it’s not our problem.”

“What’d you mean _not our problem_? I’m pretty damn sure this classifies as _our kind of problem_ ,” Dean reasons.

“Yeah, no, I know,” Sam replies. “I know it’s our kind of problem, but it’s not _our_ problem.”

“What?” Dean says dumbly.

“We’re not here to hunt, Dean, we’re here to be people.”

“So what? We should just leave it alone and call some other hunter to come check it out?” Dean says sharply. 

“ _Yes_.”

“People are _dying_ Sammy,” Dean reminds him. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with his little brother, but they have a duty goddamn it, and duty comes before any stupid celebrations.

“We don’t know that,” Sam says, but Dean can see that he does know it, just like Dean knows it. “It could just be a person. People do bad things,” but again, Dean can see he doesn’t really believe what’s coming out of his mouth.

“What’s your problem, Sam?” Dean asks angrily, shaking his head. “We have a _job_. We save people. We stop these kinds of things from happening again. It’s what we _do_.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Sam answers. “I just want to be a normal person for _one day_ without having to worry about the monster of the week coming and eating me.”

“You don’t get to be a normal person!” Dean says loudly, and he can feel himself getting steadily angrier and angrier. “We’re not normal people! We’ve never been normal people!” He gestures between himself and Sam. “You and me? This is what we do. We don’t get to be happy or normal because everyone else comes first. It’s our duty to save people from the _monster of the week_.”

“Why? Because _dad_ said so?” Sam asks, and fuck him, of course he’d bring up dad. He always does, even though it’s been ages since he passed away. “Because dad’s dead Dean, he has been for years now.”

“Because it’s what’s _right_ ,” Dean corrects him. “Dad ain’t got nothing to do with this. I know he’s dead Sam, and I moved past that a long time ago, but it doesn’t stop us having a legacy to live up to.”

“You know what?” Sam asks, abandoning his armful of groceries and pushing past Dean toward the exit. “You can do whatever the hell you want. I’m gonna go do something that makes me happy.”

Dean pushes over a stack of shopping baskets, enjoying the loud clatter they make as they fall to the floor, slams a five-dollar bill down on the counter, ignoring the startled looking cashier, and storms out the door with his newspaper. Sam, the son of a bitch, is sitting in the back of the car with Cas, who is just _sitting there_ and Dean wants to punch him, and then punch Sam, and then punch Cas again, and then Sam some more, and then every single fucking person who so much as looks at him.

He doesn’t know about Sasquatch, but he’s gonna find a motel and do some research, because something is out there killing people and _he has a duty_. 

***

The sun is just starting to set somewhere behind the stupidly tall buildings that are everywhere, and Dean is still pissed off. Sam, on the other hand, is still adamant that they’re not gonna hunt today. Dean (unlike Sam) has been being productive, searching the internet for something that fits the very sketchy outline given to him by the newspaper article. Using some of his top-grade hacking skills (a.k.a. being able to run a program that Sam installed, because he’s the nerdy one and Dean’s the action one), he’s hacked into the police data base and found that they have barely anything else to add.

Apparently the houses of the victims all smelt strangely sweet when they had no reason to, but apart from the coins (which the police haven’t been able to place the origin of) they have zip. There were no connections between the vics _at all_ , which always makes Dean’s life so much easier.

Basically, it could be anything taking the people. His biggest clue is the way it seems to happen between the last day of one month and the first day of the next, like clockwork. But it could just be an OCD vampire from all the information he has at the moment.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says as the door swings open and Cas walks out of the motel room, “do you know anything that takes people at the end of every month and leaves behind a coin?”

Cas frowns and sits down next to him, the weather-beaten park bench groaning under his weight. “Do you have any more information?”

Dean sighs. “Not really. The houses of the missing people apparently smelt like honey and fruit, three people went missing each month and none of them were connected _at all_.”

Cas’ frown deepens. “May I see your research?”

Dean shrugs and hands over his (Sam’s) laptop. “Knock yourself out.”

He scrolls awkwardly through Dean’s notes, clicking the mouse carefully like it might break or come alive or explode or something. “Have you looked into the people’s family history?” he asks after a moment.

“Uh, no?” Dean says, taking the computer back. “Should I have?”

“I don’t know,” Cas answers helpfully. 

“Gimme ten minutes,” Dean says, opening up a new internet window and Sam’s Super-Dooper Hacking Program. Cas sits there quietly and doesn’t disturb him, and doesn’t even look at him, which is probably good because otherwise Dean would get distracted. Just because it’s creepy when he stares though, not because of the way his eyes are being all stupid and blue. 

“Huh, what d’you know,” Dean says eventually.

“You found something?”

“Yeah. Well, I dunno, I think I did. All the missing persons are proven descendants of ancient Romans.”

“I thought they might be,” Cas says. Dean is pretty sure that he just wasted ten minutes of his time, because Cas is all but a walking encyclopaedia of monsters and ghosts and gods, oh my! 

“So you know what’s taking them?”

“I believe so,” he answers. “I think it’s an ancient Roman-pagan god, Janus to be exact.”

“Isn’t he the one with two faces? The god of doors?” Dean frowns. “Why would the god of doors be kidnapping people?”

“Janus is the god of beginning and transitions, so yes, he is the god of doors, but also endings and time.”

“And so he’s taking people at the end of every month,” Dean nods. It’s good to have an angel as a research tool. Not that Cas is a tool. Cas is just really, really smart (and old, but he looks about 34, so the age thing is still kind of confusing. Dean just ignores it.) Hooray for nerd-angels, that’s what Dean says. 

“I don’t understand why Janus would be taking people though,” Cas says. “He was usually a peaceful god. On the days dedicated to him, people would exchange good wishes and gifts. He was never violent.”

“It’s not the first rouge-pagan-god we’ve met. Trust me, you don’t question the why. You just gank ‘em and get it over and done with because otherwise they’ll talk your ear off about how they’re losing followers and blah, blah, blah.” Dean can almost smell the sickly mix of meadowsweet, Christmas cake and blood that was the trademark of their last December-encounter with a pagan nut job.

Cas nods. “It’s unfortunate. Janus was one of the nicer gods.”

“So how’d you know it was him in the first place?” Dean asks. 

“The coin. It was an ancient Roman _strenae_ , exchanged primarily on days celebrating Janus. The smell as well: honey and fruit, dates and figs to be exact. His followers would give him and each other offerings.” Dean will repeat, hooray for nerd-angels. 

“Right, okay, so how’d we kill him?” Dean asks, crossing his fingers that it’s something simple like a silver bullet or decapitation, but because nothing is easy, it obviously isn’t.

“A branch of a tree from the scared wood of Helernus, blessed by the goddess Cardea and soaked in lambs blood.” 

“Wow, is that all?” Dean asks sarcastically. “I’ll just pop up to 7/11 and pick up a branch from the sacred wood of Helerniamus.”

“Helernus,” Cas corrects, “and it’s not actually as complicated as it sounds. I trust you have lambs blood?”

Of course they have lambs blood. No self-respecting hunter goes somewhere without lambs blood. “Well duh,” Dean replies.

“Helernus consisted purely of ash trees, and any ash should work, as long as it’s from sacred ground.” Looks like they’re visiting a church in the near future. 

“Okay, but what about the goddess bit? I don’t have a convenient Roman goddess lying around,” Dean says.

“I should be able to bless it,” Cas replies, and Dean blinks in confusion. 

“But you’re not a goddess.”

“Yes, thank-you Dean, it had escaped my notice. I had been under the impression that I was a goddess,” Cas glares. _When did he pick up sarcasm?_ Dean isn’t sure whether to be proud or annoyed. 

Dean ignores him. “So how can you bless it?” Dean asks. “It won’t work.”

“I’m an angel,” Cas says flatly. “If I want an ash branch to be blessed like it would be by Cardea then it will be.” Apparently now Cas is the sass-master. Sasstiel. Sassy Cassy. Cas of Sass. Dean doesn’t like it.

“Okay then,” Dean says. “Now we just need to find the son a bitch and kill him before he gets any more people. Where would Janus be hiding?”

Cas frowns. “If you give me a moment I can locate him, I just –”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Dean interrupts. “Have you got enough mojo? Don’t want you hurting yourself.” Cas glares at Dean, his bitch-face almost of Sam-esque proportions. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Dean mutters. 

Cas closes his eyes for a moment and furrows his brow in concentration before opening them again and turning to Dean. “The basement of a building on 7th Avenue and West 49th Street.”

“Wait, isn’t that just next to Times Square?” Dean isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe Sam can be encouraged to come along if it’s right next-door to his precious ball drop, but then there is the fact that Janus could grab people without anyone even noticing.

“I believe so,” Cas answers. 

“Awesome,” Dean says sarcastically. “Well I think I saw a church on the corner, so I’ll go get the ash branch and you do whatever it is you do. Maybe see if you can convince Sam to pull his finger out of his ass and do his job.”

“I’ll try my best,” Cas replies, standing up at the same time as Dean. He brushes past and, probably by complete accident, their hands touch. Dean is just glad that he has a monster hunt to distract him from a) the pre-bird-incident-incident and b) the hand holding thing in the car today. 

It turns out that rogue pagan gods are a great way to take your mind off things. 


	17. Chapter Sixteen

“ _Cas!_ ” Dean screams as the newly-pronounced dickiest god in the land, Janus, throws Castiel across the room. They’re in the basement of the New York Something-or-Another-Building, right next to Times Square, where there are massive crowds of civilians (and Sam) milling around, absolutely clueless about the showdown going on beneath them. 

Dean’s ribs throb – he is pretty sure at least one is broken – and he is sporting a massive gash across his left thigh, which is soaking his jeans with blood. The magical Janus-killing twig is broken in two on the floor in the corner, and because Dean has unlimited luck, it’s not the corner in which he has been thrown. That’d be ridiculous. 

Janus tries to use his god-mojo to pick Cas up again, but ends up just standing there with an outstretched hand looking like an absolute dipshit (with two faces and a necklace of human wrist-bones, but a dipshit nonetheless.) Not for the first time, Dean is really fucking glad that Cas has mojo of his own. They’d both be dead otherwise. But before he can be too glad about anything, Janus is slamming him into the wall again and he’s trying to remember how to breathe. 

“You’re as bad as the witches,” he chokes out, forcing his face into a smirk. God, everything fucking hurts, but if he’s gonna die and he can’t go down swinging, he’s gonna go down being a smartass. 

“I’m a god,” Janus says proudly in his impeccable, posh, Queen of England accent. 

“Pretty poor excuse for one. You’re living in a basement.” If he can just distract him for long enough, Cas can get the ash branch and stab the stupid, humourless, pain-inducing son of a bitch right through the heart. 

“In the most powerful city in the world!” he booms defensively, walking toward Dean, and with a gesture, making a whole new bout of pain shoot through him. But it’s nothing Dean can’t handle. He was tortured in Hell for thirty fucking years by the best-of-the-best, so he can handle some egotistical, Roman, dick. This doesn’t even deserve to be called _pain_.

“If you’re such a big shot, can’t you do better than this? I thought you were supposed to be the god of transitions or something. Pretty lame excuse for one, am I right?” 

Janus roars in outrage and takes another step forward. “You’re nothing but a human. Who are you to call me _lame_?” 

“I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean winks saucily, “and you sure are lookin’ nice tonight. What’d you say we go for a drink later.” 

These gods can’t be the brightest bunch, because Janus doesn’t seem to notice that Dean is _distracting_ him while the other person in the room (who he seems to have forgotten about entirely) creeps up behind him with one half of the ash branch in each hand. But as always, their lives aren’t simple and nothing ever runs smoothly, so at the last minute Janus spins around and using good ol’ unnatural physical strength, sends Cas flying. His head hits a row of crates and Dean winces. Shit. 

Janus summons the broken, practically useless stick using his annoying god-telekinesis and throws it out the door onto the darkened stairwell. Well that’s fucking convenient. Maybe deciding it’d be more fun to play with his victim instead of just kill him, Janus lets go of his grip on Dean, sending him stumbling forward, only to be punched in the gut with previously mentioned good ol’ unnatural physical strength. Dean doubles over, and takes the opportunity (because why waste your allotted ‘ow-the-pain-hurts-so-much-let-me-recover’ time) to grab his gun out of his waistband.

He fires at the god, hitting his head and then his chest and then his stomach, hoping it will at least slow him down long enough for Dean to sprint out the door and get the ash branch. But obviously, Janus just laughs and lets Dean shoot him. “Bullets, Mr Winchester? Really?” he asks exuberantly. 

“Worth a shot, right?” Dean says, continuing to fire and slowly inching his way toward the door. Before he gets five feet, his gun is empty and he is, once again, entirely at Janus’ mercy. He glances over to Cas, who lies in a pile on the floor, but his chest is moving up and down, so he’s only unconscious. Dean isn’t going to explore the fact that Cas can now get knocked out by a single blow to the head.

“I would have to disagree,” Janus replies airily, walking slowly forward and with a swift movement clenches his fist. Dean gasps; he can feel his heart pulsing inside his chest, trying to fight against the invisible force constricting it and failing. Dean gasps and falls to his knees. Janus, apparently deciding that all but pulling his heart out of his fucking chest isn’t enough, lifts a second hand and then Dean feels his insides being tugged at and twisted and pulled, and black spots dance in his vision. 

_It’s okay_ , he tells himself. _This is barely an eight. Remember all those days with Alistair? Those were tens. This is barely an eight._ But holy fuck, even if it is an eight it still hurts more than fucking anything. If Dean hadn’t been to Hell, then this would be his ten. _Only an eight_. But holy fucking shit from fucking hell an eight is still fucking painful. The pain in Hell was different, because he couldn’t pass out; there was no dying from a fatal stab or loss of blood. Hell was literally a different dimension, but here, on earth, torture-by-Janus is fucking _excruciating_. 

_Only an eight_. Dean thinks he might be screaming, but he isn’t sure. He can feel his lungs being physically stretched outwards, and his intestines being twisted together. He is about to lose consciousness, or maybe die, he isn’t sure which and he can’t bring himself to care. But Sam and Cas will need him, the still rational part of him says. _But the pain_. They’ll live without him, they always do. Or maybe Janus will kill them both and destroy the earth. Dean will never know. 

But no, they need him. They need him, and so he’ll be there. He’ll survive, even by just willing himself to, mentally screaming at Janus to fucking stop, or he’ll kill him. “ _No_ ,” he tries to grit out, but the word might not have even been a word. He can’t really hear anything. 

One of the funny things about pain is that it overtakes all of your senses. The most prominent, obviously, is touch; your skin prickles and burns and screams for it all to stop. But you can _hear_ the pain as well, blood rushing from god-knows-where, the sounds of your own screams, the scrape of the knife or the scalpel or, in this case, the hum of god-mojo. The torture instruments change, but the pain is always the same. You can smell it and taste it and see it, the coppery, red of blood, the sulphurous, orange of the Hell fires, the slowly-burning pink of your sizzling skin.  

Dean can’t remember why he’s back in Hell. Something nags at him, telling him something is off, but he can’t put his finger on it, because apparently Alastair has invented a new way of torture. Dean’s never had this done to his insides before. An image briefly surfaces; Sam killing Alistair, a flash of tan trench-coat, an Enochian devil’s trap, but it is gone just as quickly. He doesn’t even know his own name anymore. He tries to find a place in his mind, somewhere to go to seek comfort, but there is nothing. He can remember blood and fire, killing, being killed, watching everyone he loves die. He remembers a brother – Sam – leaving him because he isn’t good enough, a disappointed father dying so that he could live, endless sacrifices and betrayals, stretching all the way back until there is nothing but dark. He remembers blue eyes, but not who they belong to. He knows he cares about the blue-eyed person, but he can’t remember why. To be honest, he doesn’t really give a fuck.

He is sure he’s about to die. He would really like to die. Dying would be nice. His mind grows foggier and foggier, the pain more of a constant, screaming ache than anything definable. Blackness comes, and he begins to wonder why he’s dying when he’s already in Hell, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, it just needs to end. 

And then suddenly, it’s gone. He can breathe, he can feel his heart pumping and his lungs working and everything slowly slotting back into place. His name is Dean Winchester, he is in New York City, it’s New Year’s Eve and he was hunting the god Janus with the falling angel Castiel. “ _Cas_ ,” he whispers, because that’s obviously who saved him. He last remembers seeing him unconscious over in the corner, but who knows how long Janus was having fun with him for. Plus, Cas is mostly-angel. 

“Try again,” a familiar voice says.                                     

Dean manages to open his eyes a crack, the aftershock of the torture slowly seeping away. “Sammy?” He doesn’t remember Sam being here. No… Sam was off celebrating in Times Square. He _wasn’t_ with them. “Why’re you here?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds garbled and croaky, but Sam must get the message.

“I changed my mind,” he replies. “You were right I –” his voice cracks. “I wanted to do something normal, and you nearly died because I was being selfish. I’m sorry Dean.”

Dean grunts and manages to push himself up a bit, enough to look Sam in the eyes. The touchy-feely crap can wait. “You kill Janus?”

Sam smiles and holds up the ash branch, and for the first time Dean notices the crumpled body of Dean’s new least-favourite god (he even trumps capital-G God) lying on the floor a few feet away. That’d be a yes then. 

This is why Dean needs Sam as backup. Cas is brilliant and all but – 

“Fuck, where’s Cas?” Dean asks suddenly. Cas plus head wound plus not 100% angel plus being tossed around by Janus equals something that can’t be good. Dean feels a bunch of things, things he’s too busy feeling to name, and needs Cas to be alive because otherwise… _holy fuck_ he doesn’t know what’ll happen to him.

“Fuck,” Dean says again, pushing himself up onto his feet and nearly collapsing again, probably from the leg-gash (from which he is losing a fuck-load of blood) more than the Janus-induced-torture. He shoves past Sam over to where Cas is lying, his back to them and looking far too limp to be healthy. He’d been breathing before, Dean is sure of it. But lots can happen when a head-wound is involved. He could be dead. _Cas could be dead_.

Dean feels even more things, and they all mix together into a cacophony of feelings that drown out each other so much that they lose meaning and name and everything except a clear indication of _fuck_. “Dean,” Sam says, but Dean ignores him because right now, its Cas he’s worrying about. 

Dean throws himself down next to Cas, ignoring the jolt to his broken rib and the burn in his leg and rolls Cas over. The right side of his head is covered in blood, his hair matted and his eyelid glued shut, and Dean is really, really beginning to freak out. There is a huge tear just under his hair-line, which isn’t bleeding anymore. That could either be good or very, very bad. 

He tries to take a deep breath. He needs to be rational and calm. He tries to find his inner butterfly or whatever the fuck it is you do, but then gives up entirely and decides that as long as his brain works, he can be as absolutely not-calm as he wants.  A pulse, he remembers, he needs to check for a pulse. He brings a hand to Cas’ wrist and _thank fucking everything_ there’s a pulse there. Pulses are good. As long as there is a pulse, then no one is dying tonight. 

“Is he okay?” Sam asks urgently. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean says sharply, “go get me some water and bandages; they’re in my duffel outside the door.” Sam just stands there, blinking. “Fucking _go_ Sammy!” Dean shouts. Sam is shaken out of wherever it is his stupid brain was hiding and goes to do as Dean says. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, and he is very, very calm and his voice is very, very level and there is no panic or fear anywhere there. “Cas, you with me buddy?”

There’s no answer, Cas just continues to lay there, completely still. “Crap,” Dean whispers, tilting his head back and staring at the mildewy, concrete ceiling. “Crap.” They can’t just take him to a hospital, because what if he suddenly decides to sprout a set of wings while they’re checking up on him? But maybe they’ll have to, possible wing-sprouting or not. Neither Dean nor Sam is a doctor

But then a hand is curling around his wrist. “Dean,” Cas says, his voice gravelly and scratchy, but if he’s talking then he’s awake and alive and not dying.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, his head snapping back to Castiel. He runs his free hand over his face, letting out a slightly hysterical laugh. Before he even knows what he’s doing, Dean is hugging Cas, pulling his body up from the floor and wrapping his arms around him, ignoring the fact that he probably shouldn’t be moving him because he’s hurt and blah, blah, blah because he’s just really fucking relieved. 

Castiel is tense for a moment, but then his body relaxes and he leans into Dean. “Jesus, Cas, I thought you were dead,” Dean says, squeezing his eyes shut and refusing to look at the world. 

“You care that much?” and even though he can’t see him, (because his head may or may not be resting on Cas’ shoulder) he can hear his frown.

Dean lets out another broken, hysterical laugh. “Of course I care. I fucking need you Cas. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Without really meaning to, Dean finds Cas’ fingers and twists his own through them, their hands slotting together really, really nicely. Dean isn’t going to think about how nice this feels, or how perfect Cas’ hand fits in his, or how, despite the blood and dirt, Cas smells really good. He is just happy Cas is alive, because honestly, without him Dean isn’t even sure if he’d still be here. 

Dean clings to Cas, and even though he should be the one doing to comforting – Cas was just nearly killed for fucks sake – Dean lets himself hold on, allowing the panic and fear and all the other emotions that that are still impossible to name sink away. Cas’ head tips forward to rest on his shoulder, and he sighs, his breath tickling Dean’s neck. 

Dean is going to wait until later, in the privacy of his own somewhere, to freak out about this. Right now, it just feels too nice to let go, and fuck it all, they both deserve a little bit of nice. They are both sore and bleeding and beaten, but right now, they hold to each other and it doesn’t really matter. It probably isn’t important to either of them who they’re clinging to, just that there’s someone there. Something in the back of Dean’s mind screams, _no, it does matter that it’s Cas. You need it to be Cas_ , but he ignores it because that’s what he’s good at. 

“Um, guys?” Sam squeaks quietly from the doorway. 

Dean quickly pulls away, disentangling himself from Cas. “ _What_?” Dean asks sharply. 

“Cas is okay?” Sam asks, avoiding Dean’s eyes. It’s probably because he feels guilty about neglecting his duty and he damn well should be. They’ll talk about it later. 

“I’m fine,” Cas answers. “My head is nearly healed.” Dean looks over and sees that sure enough, the blood has all magically disappeared (that’d be a really nice power to have, it’d save a lot of dry-cleaning money) and the gash on his head is now a whole lot shallower. “You’re hurt,” Cas says, squinting at Dean’s blood-soaked thigh.

“I’ve had worse,” Dean says, because he has. He died once, which, by far, constitutes as worse than a surface wound and a broken rib.

“Let me heal you,” Cas says, reaching out a hand, but Dean shrugs him away. 

“Nuh uh,” Dean shakes his head, “you need to save your mojo.”

“It doesn’t work like a battery Dean, it’s just there until it’s not,” Cas reminds him. “Let me heal you.”

“No.”

“Dean,” Cas growls, getting out his favourite ‘remember, I’m an angel so you do what I want, watch me get all scary’ mode. Dean has to say, it is pretty persuasive. 

“Fine,” Dean grumbles. “Just promise you won’t hurt yourself.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Cas says roughly. “I can either heal your rib or your leg or half heal both. I don’t have the energy to do both fully.”

“Half-do both,” Dean decides instantly. A half-healed rib and a half-healed leg is better than a broken rib or a gushing thigh wound.

Cas presses a palm to his forehead and the pain instantly dissipates, the injuries losing their severity. “Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, and pushes himself up, still wincing slightly as pressure is put on his leg, but it’s practically an egotistical paper-cut now.

“What time is it?” he asks, stretching his arms until the joints in his shoulders crack.

“Uh, 11:59,” Sam replies. “One minute until next year.”

“You really wanted to watch the ball drop didn’t you?” Dean asks, looking over at Sam. 

“This is more important,” he shrugs, but Dean can see his girlish Sam-dreams slowly being crushed.

“We’ve still got a minute,” Dean says, hauling Cas up by the back of his trench coat, making him stagger slightly before regaining his balance and glaring at Dean. “If we hurry we can get outside before midnight. We might not be able to see the ball, but there are still the fireworks, right?”

“Seriously?” Sam asks, apparently not believing that Dean isn’t always a crusher-of-hopes-and-dreams. Actually, Dean wouldn’t really believe it either. But hey, here he is. 

“Hey, I’m not all awful,” Dean smiles and slaps Cas on the back. “Now hurry, I wanna get there before next year.” 

Far too quickly considering it’s for a bunch of sparkly lights, they hurry up the stairs, Dean ignoring the egotistical paper-cut on his thigh and the burn in his chest in favour of doing something nice for Sammy, even if he is still pissed at him. Sam pushes the doors open just as the crowd in Times Square shouts _one_ and the sky explodes in a medley of colours. Sam laughs and goes to stand on the curb, staring up at the sky like he’s still a kid and they’re still happy and the world’s still simple. Dean glances over at Cas, who instead of looking at the sky is looking at him, his face lit by red light and then white and then purple and then white again, the fireworks exploding constantly above them, banging loudly and fading out with a fizzle. Cas looks just about as bewildered as Sam, his eyes wide and a soft smile tugging at his lips. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says loudly over the noise.

“What for?”

Cas laughs – a sound Dean has never heard before – and spreads his arms widely. “For this, for everything. For letting me be here with you, for caring about me, for making me happy,” he laughs again. “Isn’t it just remarkable?” 

As Dean looks between Cas and Sam, the two people he needs the most, and sees how happy they both are, despite the fact they were all nearly dead less than twenty minutes ago, he feels a burst of warm contentment fill him. “It is,” he agrees after a moment. And it really is. 

They are remarkable. 


	18. Chapter Seventeen

The bright neon lights hurt Castiel’s eyes and the loud bass emanating from the various night-clubs thrums through him, the different bass-lines mixing together and creating a collection of resonating _booms_ that make him feel uncomfortable. It’s a few hours before midnight, the 2 nd of January, in the red-light district of New York. Earlier that evening Dean had shoved Castiel into the passenger seat of the Impala and told him they were going to do something manly. Upon being asked, he had elaborated that in this case ‘manly’ meant going to a strip-club.

“I don’t like it here,” he says to Dean, who looks excited. Personally, he would much rather be back at the motel room with Sam. 

“Don’t worry, you will,” he says. “I’ve heard great things about this place.” Dean seems so enthusiastic that Castiel almost doesn’t want to protest.

“Isn’t it demeaning for the women?” 

“It’s an honest living,” Dean assures him. “If they didn’t want to do it then they wouldn’t.”

“Many of the women don’t want to be doing it, but they must because it is they only way they can make an income. Take her for example,” Castiel says, pointing at a leather-clad woman walking into the club in front of them. “Her name is Matilda Rogers and she comes from a financially decrepit family in Pennsylvania. She moved to New York when she turned eighteen with the hopes of becoming a veterinary surgeon, but after her college application was declined, she gave up and turned to small jobs, and then eventually began work as a stripper. Her stage name is Tori, because she was told ‘Matilda’ makes her seem too innocent.”

Dean blinks at him. “How’d you even know that?”

“I can see into people’s minds,” Castiel replies flatly. “I’m an angel.”

Dean frowns and looks away, but then back at Castiel. “Wait, so… you can read my mind?”

“If I wanted to, yes, but I don’t because it’d be an invasion of your privacy.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Dean says pointedly. “C’mon,” he claps Castiel on the shoulder, “club, women, alcohol, and fun. Let’s go.” 

“I don’t find this ‘fun.’” 

“We haven’t even gone through the door yet.”

Castiel frowns and follows Dean, the bouncer not giving them a second glance. The club is crowded; mostly with men, as well as five women who dance on stages evenly spaced throughout the venue. 

“C’mon, we’ll get a drink,” Dean says, guiding him over to the bar in the corner.

Castiel’s eyes graze over the people in the room. This entire establishment makes him feel sick to the stomach and _wrong_ , and not just because the entire concept is based on human lecherousness. There is something off that he just can’t place.

Castiel sits down next to Dean, frowning at the bar-tender, a young woman who is still nearly as scantily clad as the dancers. Dean calls her over with a sharp whistle. “Two beers please,” he asks with a smile. “One for me and one for my friend here.”

“Coming right up,” she says, winking at Dean, who winks back.

“I don’t wish to consume any alcohol,” Castiel says. 

Dean frowns. “Why?”

“I don’t see the point.” Not only is alcohol a depressant, but it slows reflexes down. Castiel knows that many humans – Dean included – find alcohol _fun_ but he personally doesn’t see the appeal.

“Because it’s good,” Dean says flatly. “That’s like saying you don’t see the point in pie.”

“I _don’t_ see the point in pie,” Castiel frowns. 

Dean shakes his head. “Dude, _pie_.”

The bartender returns with their drinks, leaning down over the counter in what Castiel believes is an attempt to make her cleavage more pronounced. “Thanks,” Dean says. “I’m Dean.”

Her eyes briefly land on Dean, but then rake back over to Castiel. “I’m Misty,” she says, but with a pulse of grace Castiel discovers that her name is actually ‘Patricia,’ not Misty.

Castiel sees Dean eye the two of them and then grin saucily, raising his eyebrows and mouthing ‘she likes you.’ Castiel squints at her and she giggles. Castiel can sense that under her façade, she is actually a relatively intelligent individual, but she has quelled that intelligence in order to find a place in society. “I like your coat,” she says, leaning forward and smoothing down the lapels. 

Castiel stiffens, feeling incredibly uncomfortable under her gaze. Her hands don’t move from his chest, and he stares down at them bewilderedly, not sure whether it would be acceptable to push her off, or if he should just let her touch him. “Thank you?” he says, not intending for it to be a question.

“Cas, relax,” Dean whispers to him.

Castiel tries to do as Dean asks, but he can’t. He doesn’t like this woman. He wants her to go away, to stop touching him, to stop looking at him like he’s some piece of art to be ogled at. ‘Misty’ runs her hands slowly up his chest and rests them on his shoulders. “What’s your name then, angel?” she asks huskily.

As Dean would say, the alarm bells in Castiel’s head go off. He frowns and goes to push her away, interrogate her on how she knows what he is and, if necessary, kill her, but Dean’s hand on his forearm stops him. “Excuse my friend,” he says to ‘Misty,’ “he doesn’t usually do this. Could you give us a second?”

‘Misty’ gives them a confused glance but nods and walks away. “Ok, Cas,” Dean says, withdrawing his arm. “She was flirting with you.”

“That was a flirtation?” Castiel frowns. He is relieved that she doesn’t know of his true nature. It was an unfortunate choice of words on her behalf.

“ _Yes_.” 

“But being an angel is not a pleasant or appealing thing. Why would you use it to describe someone you’re attracted to?” Castiel means it more as a rhetorical question, but receives an answer nonetheless. 

“D’you honestly need to me answer that? People don’t know about angels, Cas. They think they’re all sugar and spice and everything nice.”

“I am enthused to know when along the line humans vision of angels became so warped.” Angels were only ever portrayed as warriors of God; vengeful, powerful beings of clear purpose. At some point in history, the true nature of seraphim’s became muddled with that of cherubs and lower class angels, and the meaning of ‘angel’ was moved from meaning ‘soldier’ to being synonymous with ‘darling’ or ‘sweetie’ or any other amount of pet-names.

“I dunno,” Dean shrugs, taking a swig from his beer. “But d’you know what I _do_ know? The bartender is totally into you and even though you don’t usually hook up at places like this, I reckon you could.”

“I don’t want to ‘hook up,’” Castiel frowns. He doesn’t like ‘Misty’ in the least, let alone enough to want to mate with her.

“Why?” Dean asks. “She’s hot, and I’m guessing you haven’t gotten laid in ages?” 

Castiel has never, as Dean put it, ‘gotten laid,’ and he has no desire to. If he did want to fornicate then he would wait for someone he loved, not ‘Misty,’ and so he tells Dean so.

“But sex isn’t always about love,” Dean argues. “Sure, once you find that _special someone_ then it’s part of it, but it can just be for fun. Don’t mean you love them.”

“But it’s the most intimate way two humans can be together, so why be with someone in such a way if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with them?”

“Jesus, you would be one of those ‘sex is only for soul-mates’ people,” Dean says. “If you find a woman who likes you and you like her, then there is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with spending some quality time together.”

Castiel doesn’t think that Dean’s definition of ‘quality time’ is in anyway a benefit to either party involved. They don’t share anything beyond a common feeling of lust. As an angel, Castiel doesn’t feel sexual desire, but once he does, he isn’t going to share himself with someone he doesn’t love. There is no sentimentality, and sentimentality is all but the basis of humanity.

“If you don’t like Misty, then there are still plenty of other women out there,” Dean makes a general gesture in the direction of the door.

“I don’t like women,” Castiel frowns. 

Dean’s face loses its colour, and then turns a bright red. “Oh… _oh_ , I didn’t realise you were…” Dean trails off and clears his throat. “Well I’m not taking you to any gay bars, so you’re on your own there,” he finishes gruffly.

Castiel frown deepens. “I’m not homosexual either.”

“But you said you don’t like women. If you don’t like women you like men.”

“Sexuality is a lot broader than that, Dean,” Castiel points out. “As an angel I am completely devoid from any sexuality. Angels are genderless and we lack the desire to mate.” 

“Wait, so you’ve never…” Dean trails off, looking at Castiel with raised eyebrows.

Castiel looks away, not meeting Dean’s eyes. He can feel Dean judging him, and, even though reason tells him not to be, he feels shameful. “Angel’s don’t have sex,” he says flatly.

“Wait, but what about Nephilim?” Dean asks. “Didn’t you say once that angels bred with humans?”

“That is what led to our sexual desire being removed.” 

Dean exhales heavily. “I really can’t believe I’m having a conversation about angel-sex with you when there are half-naked women everywhere.”

“You can go watch if you want,” Castiel says. “I don’t mind.” 

Dean shrugs and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just not feeling it anymore. To be honest I don’t know if I was ever feeling it. Since I got back from Hell…” Dean sighs. “I dunno, I just don’t feel things like I used to.”

“It’s understandable,” Castiel reassures him, and it is. What Dean went through in Hell is more than any living, mortal soul has endured. No longer having the same sexual drive is but a minuscule fraction of the ways it changed him.

“I should be more excited about being here, you know? I mean the chicks are hot, the beer’s good, it ain’t overpriced,” he shrugs again. “I dunno, man, it just feels _off_.”

“Does that mean we can leave?” Castiel asks, eyes flickering over to ‘Misty’ who keeps giving him predatory glances out of the corner of her eye.  

“You haven’t even drunk your beer,” Dean says. “We can leave after you’ve drunk your beer.”

Castiel glances down at his beer and, because this whole atmosphere makes his skin crawl, he downs it in one, gulping the cool liquid down before slamming the bottle onto the counter. “May we leave now?” he asks, turning to Dean.

It is then, much to Castiel’s utter joy (and a small part of him is proud of the way he can now correctly grasp the concept of sarcasm), ‘Misty’ decides to walk back over, and Castiel glances urgently at Dean, who is just sitting there with a smirk on his face. “Hey, sugar,” she purrs, leaning back down and staring up at him with wide, dewy brown eyes, her lashes caked in make-up. “I didn’t end up catching your name before.” 

“Castiel,” he says, glancing warily at her. 

“Well, Cas,” she says, and then with a small smile: “I can call you Cas, right?”

“No.” 

“Well _Castiel_ ,” she rolls his name off her tongue like its completely foreign, slurring the ‘s’ and putting particular emphasis on the ‘el,’ “I get off my shift in half an hour, what d’you say we take this somewhere else?”

“I’ll be gone by then,” Castiel tells her. “Dean and I are leaving now.”

“I’m sure you can wait a bit longer,” she says, twirling her hair between her fingers. Castiel leans backward on his stool, trying to distance himself from her as much as he can. Dean is meanwhile trying, and struggling, to keep a straight face.

“I really must leave,” he tells her firmly. Castiel admires her persistence, but just wishes she would put it to better use.

“Do you have a cell-phone number I could grab? We could catch up another time,” she says, winking and pressing her body closer to the counter, causing her cleavage to become even more pronounced.

“Patricia,” Castiel says firmly. “I do not love you and therefore do not wish to have sex with you, now or at a later date. I will not be giving you my cell-phone number. Please leave me alone, your approaches are unwelcome. Continue to try and ‘get in my pants,’ as the phrase goes, and I will be forced to smite you.”

She jerks backwards at the same time Dean bursts out laughing. ‘Misty’ – _Patricia_ – looks startled, either at the fact that she was rejected, at Castiel’s bluntness or, more likely, the fact that he threatened to harm and/or kill her. Without replying she nods and hurries away, giving him one last stunned glance.

Dean, who is breathless from laughter, chokes out, “ _Dude_ , did you just threaten to smite the bartender?” 

“Yes.”

Dean takes a raking breath, letting out a few more broken chuckles. “C’mon,” he says when he has regained his composure, “we can leave now.”

He places a ten dollar bill on the counter to cover the cost of the beers, giving Patricia a small wave, throwing an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and leading him out of the club. “Cas,” he says once they’re out on the footpath, “you’re awesome.” 

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel replies. Dean drops his arm and runs a hand through his hair, tilting his head back and laughing. 

“Tonight didn’t exactly go how I planned,” Dean admits, glancing at Castiel out of the corner of his eye.

“My apologies.” 

“No, I had more fun in the ten minutes we were in there then I would’ve have after an hour of watching strippers,” Dean says. “Dude, you threatened to smite the bartender. That’s priceless.” Dean chuckles again and lets his head fall down to his chest. “Don’t change, Cas. Ever.”

Castiel smiles and tilts his head at Dean, who looks up and meets his eyes. “I mean it,” Dean says quietly, “don’t _ever_ change.”

Castiel would point out how change is inevitable, especially for someone in his position. He would say how without change life would be boring, he would be boring, the world would be monotonous and grey; but something in the tone of Dean’s voice and the tiny, upward quirk of his lips and the softness of his eyes stops him. “I won’t,” he says instead, finding himself meaning it. 

Dean’s smile widens some and he blinks, “Thanks, Cas,” he says. “You’re awesome.” 

If Dean had not prohibited it, then Castiel would be tempted to reach out and take his hand, aching for the familiar, pleasant, indescribable contact – contact that for reasons he can’t decipher he constantly aches for – their palms pressing against each other, warm and comfortable, and their fingers slotting together perfectly, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because it makes Dean uncomfortable, and Dean comes first. He doesn’t hold Dean’s hand, as much as he desires to, and he never will. He _never_ will, and for an unidentified reason, that marks the third time Castiel finds himself with a broken heart.

* * *

Dean is marking this as attempt-three at Getting Cas to Do a Human Thing, and hopefully, this will not end as dismally as the time with the burger or last night with the whole nearly-smiting-the-bartender thing. Dean’s taking Cas to see a movie – at the _cinema’s_ – and it’s gonna be awesome. Dean maybe regresses into an eight year old when things like this are involved, but, hey, who can blame him? They get to watch things explode on the big-screen while eating popcorn and drinking soda and _eating popcorn_. Not to mention the fact that they’re seeing the new James Bond movie and James Bond is a total badass. 

“I’m sorry, tonight’s session of Quantum of Solace is sold out,” the kid behind the ticket counter says.

“ _What?_ ” 

“Look, I’m sorry,” the kid says. “You’ll have to choose something else.”

“What else is on?” Dean grumbles. There better be something else at least marginally as good as James Bond because otherwise Dean is going to be pissed. He hadn’t even bothered to look at what else was showing because _James fucking Bond_. (So maybe he has a thing for spy-movies, but they’re fucking awesome so it’s not his fault.)

“Uh, there’s Bolt, that’s about a cartoon dog, there’s Twilight –”

“Don’t you even think about it,” Dean hisses to Cas, who straightened up a bit at the mention of the name. He’s _not_ going to see a movie about sparkly vampires. Being in the same house as the book was bad enough.

“Do you want me to keep going?” the kid asks, and Dean nods. “There’s Transporter 3, Four Christmases, um, The Reader, The Day the Earth Stood Still, A Match Made In Heaven –” Dean has to step on Cas’ foot to stop him saying something about cherubs “– The Tale of Despereaux, Yes Man, Seven Pounds, Marley and Me –”

“I can hear people thinking about that one,” Cas says quietly, leaning over to Dean. Apparently whispering is a skill Cas still needs to pick up because the kid (who probably has a name, but it’s not Dean’s fault this place doesn’t give the employees badges) gives Cas a startled look.

“Did he just say he could hear–”

“He meant talking,” Dean says quickly. “Didn’t you Cas?”

“No I meant thinking,” he frowns. “A movie just finished and their emotions are very loud.”

Dean side-eyes Cas. “He’s uh, he’s kidding,” he reassures the kid, who just gives him a bored nod.

“And then the rest are all kids’ movies,” he replies flatly. “Do you want me to read them out?”

“That’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Which of those movies are _good_?”

The kid sighs exasperatedly. “Look, I dunno, I just sell the tickets.”

“I’d like to see Marley and Me,” Cas says to Dean. 

“We’re gonna see something awesome, not a movie about a dog,” Dean says sharply. He wants something with explosions and car chases and _James Bond_ , but since he can’t have the last one, he still needs the first two. It’s not a movie unless it has at least one explosion and/or car chase. 

“Everyone exiting the cinema seems to like it,” Castiel furrows his eyebrows for a second. “Except for one elderly man, but he was asleep for the portion of it and has a sore hip, so his opinion can be discounted.” 

Dean starts to rolls his eyes, but then Cas catches his gaze and his eyes are so wide and blue and pleading that before he even knows what he’s doing, he finds himself saying, “Fine. Fine, we’ll go see the movie about the dog. Two tickets for Marley and Me please.”

“Is the back row fine?” the kid asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean mumbles, shaking his head and handing over a bank card (this one under the name of Robert Page). 

“Can I get you any snacks?”

“A jumbo popcorn. And some of those rainbow sour-strap things,” Dean says, pointing at the candy shelf. “And a cola. And some of these,” Dean picks up a packet of crinkly chips and then, just for good measure, grabs another two as well. Even if the movie sucks he may as well enjoy the food. 

“What about for your boyfriend?” the kid asks, and if Dean had had a drink in his mouth then he would have spat it everywhere, but he doesn’t and so he is left spluttering awkwardly like a fish so far out of water it’s in the middle of the fucking Sahara. 

“Cas isn’t my boyfriend,” he chokes out. “Besides, he doesn’t need to eat.”

The kid gives Dean an affronted look, and okay, maybe to outsiders _he doesn’t need to eat_ could give the impression that Dean is severely controlling over Cas and starves him or something. “I mean, he isn’t a person,” Dean quickly corrects, but then realises that that did bullshit to make it sound like he’s not a horrible person. It’s the kids fault for thinking that they were fucking _boyfriends_. Dean’s brain has a right to be a bit out of it.

“Just get me my popcorn,” Dean mutters, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. First no James Bond, then he’s stuck going to see a movie about a goddamn dog, then the stupid, pimply, hardly-even out of diapers kid thought he was gay (why do people always do that, Dean is literally the straightest guy on this side of the planet) and now it sounds like he’s some sort of horrible bastard.

And then to top it all off Dean notices Cas is over by the claw-machine, crouched down by the prize-hatch with an arm up in the bowels of the machine. “What’reyou _doing_?” Dean hisses.

“There’s something stuck on the inside,” Cas frowns, shimmying closer and nearly knocking the whole fucking thing over.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean sighs, and turns around, deciding that if he can’t see him then it’s not happening. So far the chances of this entire evening not ending in disaster are small. 

“Uh, what’s he doing?” the kid behind the counter asks when he returns with Dean’s popcorn.

“I’m not even sure,” Dean shakes his head, giving a sharp, offhanded gesture in the direction of Cas. “Just let him go.” 

“Yeah, okay, buddy,” the kid says. He scans Dean’s card and hands it back, along with the tickets, and in hindsight, Dean should have waited before grabbing all the food because now he has no hands left with which to hold the card.

“Cas,” Dean calls, “could you help me carry this.”

“Hang on, I almost have it,” he replies, and Dean hears the machine hit against the wall in a way that really can’t be good. Dean is close to abandoning the whole movie thing – just dropping the popcorn and running, wasted money be damned – but then Cas is in front of him and grabbing the popcorn and candy out of his arms. 

“Thanks, Cas,” he sighs. He gives the kid behind the counter (who looks close to calling security on them) a wave of thanks and checks their tickets. “Cinema five,” he reads slowly. “I think that’s this way.”

Because Dean has impeccable navigation skills, they find cinema five _and_ their seats without trouble. But nothing is awesome because they’re still seeing a dog-movie instead of James Bond. After carefully manoeuvring around the food and drink, grabbing the popcorn and settling comfortably in his seat, he turns to Cas. “So did you get the thing out of the claw-machine?”

Cas holds up a plush clown toy. “That’s awesome,” Dean says pointedly, chuckling and grabbing it out of his hands. “Sam _loves_ clowns.” Even if things aren’t awesome, he can make them be awesome. What if he puts the clown in Sam’s bed? Or in the shower? Or in his duffle bag? Or in the microwave? Or tears it up and leaves creepy bits of mutilated clown everywhere for Sam to find? Heh, he’s a genius. 

“You plan to exploit his phobia, don’t you?” Cas asks with a frown. 

“ _No_ ,” Dean huffs and then frowns. “Okay, yes,” he says at the same time Cas says ‘you do.’ 

“It’ll be hilarious,” Dean starts to say, but is cut off by a glare from Cas. 

“The film is beginning,” he says, motioning his head toward the screen, and sure enough it’s lit up with the green film-ratings screen, indicating that a movie-trailer is about to start. “It’s impolite to talk.” 

“It’s only the previews,” Dean mutters, but Cas actually _shushes_ him, so he shut’s up.

It’s about half an hour before Dean admits to himself that okay, maybe this movie isn’t as bad as he thought it’d be. For a chick-flick and all. It’s not James Bond, but nothing is James Bond except James Bond. Once, when Cas is reaching into the popcorn bucket (he actually likes popcorn, which is a win for Dean), their hands brush like they’re fucking teenagers on a fucking date and Dean nearly chokes on his soda. Dean pretends to be bored, because _chick-flick_ , and if he tears up a bit at the end when the dog dies then he ignores it and pretends it isn’t happening because a) as previously mentioned, it’s a fucking chick-flick, b) there weren’t any explosions and/or car chases, c) it’s a dog dying, not a person, d) he doesn’t even cry when _people_ in movies die and e) crying over dying fictional dog’s in chick-flicks with zero explosions is girly. 

Later on Cas tells Dean that his emotions had been very loud and Dean tells Cas to shove it where the sun don’t shine. Cas frowns and tells him that the majority of the movie patrons found it very moving and Dean is forced to turn Led Zeppelin up _really, really_ loud just to prevent them both growing vaginas. At least Cas didn’t threaten to kill anyone this time.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**_Bridgewater, New York_ **

The woman can feel someone watching her. It’s dark, the cold making her breath mist out in front of her and the snow fall finally ceasing after hours of relentless blizzard. The moon is hidden behind thick clouds and a yellowish haze of smog, most of it having drifted over from New York City, turning the night sky from a blanket of stars to a smothering net of smoke and darkness. Her primary source of light is the electric lamp on the porch steps, which casts everything in shades of murky blue. 

The light begins to flicker.

She can feel her heart thumping in her chest, and although reason tells her there’s nothing to be afraid of – she is out the front of her house in the middle of suburbia after all – with each second comes a new bout of panic. The light flickers off and then on again, its rhythm erratic and random, and she fumbles to open the trash-can lid. A chill that has nothing to do with the temperature creeps down her spine and she can still feel eyes staring at her, unblinking. 

She forces herself to take a deep breath and shove the trash-bag down into the can, before shutting the lid and walking back up the front-path as fast as she can without slipping on the ice. A branch cracks behind her and her heart leaps, beating urgently against the inside of her chest. She spins around, a scream edging its way up out of her throat.

She lets out a startled squeak, a scream half-formed, but then sees who it is and lets it dissipate into a nervous laugh. “Matthew, that’s not funny,” she pouts. “You scared me.”

Matthew – her long-time neighbour and friend – smiles, but something about it is wrong. He doesn’t look _right_ , his lips curling inward and his smile not reaching his eyes. She puts it down to the cold and the remaining adrenaline pumping through her, altering her perception of the world. “Sorry, Kasey,” he replies, striding forward, the grin not leaving his face.

“What’re you doing out here?” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s nearly mid-night.”

“I was looking for you, Kasey,” he says, and then his eyes turn pitch-black, Kasey feels an intense burn in her stomach, someone is screaming, the world goes red and then black and then she can’t feel anything at all. Her life ends with the coppery taste of blood and the grinning face of Matthew, who, a part of her thinks behind the encompassing wall of pain, maybe isn’t Matthew at all. And then it is over. 

* * *

“Agents Ulrich, Hetfield and Hammet, F.B.I,” Dean says, holding up his badge. Sam does the same and Cas… Cas stands there with a completely blank look on his face, which is probably for the best considering he has one of Sam’s other badges and they look nothing alike, even if you take away the girl-hair. The police officer doesn’t spare any of them more than a glance before lifting the yellow-tape and letting them under. They’re gonna need to get Cas some fake-I.D.’s, but this case sort of appeared out of no-where, so they didn’t have the time. Sam had been browsing the internet for god-knows-what when he had found a post from a local newspaper detailing the brutal murder of a woman a few dozen miles away from NYC. It had sounded like Their Kind of Thing, and they were in the area. 

“Want to run us through what happened?” Sam asks, using his I’m-very-sorry-that-this-happened-look-at-how-sympathetic-I-am-but-do-what-I-say-because-I’m-a-big-scary-fed voice. 

“The woman, Kasey Dalton, was found out the front of her house around five this morning by her girlfriend. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a wild-animal attack, but the way she was ripped up,” the officer shrugs, “it was definitely a person who did it. No finger-prints anywhere though, even though it looks like they used their bare hands. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Dean says with a tight-lipped smile. 

“So, the victim, Kasey, did she have any enemies that you know of?” Sam asks. “Any reason anyone might want to do this to her?”

“I’m not really the right person to be asking,” the officer shrugs. “We only found the body a few hours ago, and I’ve been here the whole time. I haven’t been run through what anyone else might have found out about her.”

“You didn’t know her personally then?” Sam asks, while Dean quietly slips away under the pretence of looking at the evidence markers. He glances over his shoulder before grabbing out the EMF and switching it on. It whirs and the red bars shoot all the way up to the top. So a ghost then. A very powerful ghost by the looks of it. Dean is about to go tell Sam and Cas, so they can move on and gank whatever dick-monkey is killing people this time, but then he looks up and apparently they’re standing right under power-lines, so the EMF is useless. That always makes things so much easier.

He slowly walks around the crime scene, eyes panning over everything, looking for sulphur or ectoplasm or anything that might help narrow it down from roughly fuck-knows-how-many monsters to something (preferably) below one-hundred. A faint sulphurous stench hits his nostrils, and sure enough, when he squats down there’s a small pile of yellow powder by the trash-can. Years of hunting demons and he still has no fucking idea how they leave behind sulphur. Does it just rub off of their skin? Does it fall from the sky when the demon-smoke enters the host? Do they just _excrete_ it? Dean is a great hunter – the best of the best in fact – but some things remain mysteries. 

He stands up and dusts off his fingers, walking back over to Cas and Sam, the latter who is still interrogating the officer with probably pointless questions, because he doesn’t seem to know anything. Dean swears to God, Allah, Buddha, Zeus _whoever_ that he’d be a better cop then some of the people they come across. In another life (one in which Dean didn’t kill things for a living, hadn’t been to Hell, hadn’t had close encounters of the sixth and seventh kind with literal-Angels-of-the-Lord and actually payed attention to the law) then he’d make a kickass cop. 

“We’ve got a demon,” he says quietly, tapping Cas on the shoulder and drawing him away from Sam and the cop-who-knows-nothing. 

“Sulphur?” Cas confirms, sniffing the air like a freaking blood-hound. He nods. “Yes, I do detect signs of demonic activity in and around this area.”

“You couldn’t have pointed that out as soon as we got here?” Dean asks.

“I can’t just instantly detect these things anymore,” Cas says, his voice suddenly dropped an octave. “It takes energy.”

Dean instantly feels like a complete dick. The thing about Major Issues, capital-M, capital-I, is that they are constantly floating around somewhere in your consciousness, sometimes taking the forefront and sometimes tucking themselves away at the back, behind closed doors and more immediate problems. Sometimes, you’ll forget about them all-together – not for long, but long enough for you to let something slip, or be unfairly happy, or any other amount of not-appropriate things. Then you’ll remember that you’re in the middle of a Major Issue, capital-M, capital-I, and your brain is suddenly a flashing neon sign reading ‘YOU FORGOT THE REALLY-BAD-THING THAT’S HAPPENING YOU ASS’ with a smaller sign underneath reading ‘everyone is upset now’ in fancy cursive. 

Dean swallows and can’t meet Cas’ eyes. “You okay?” he asks. 

“I’m fine. I know how much grace I can use without over-exerting myself. I just try not to use it unless reason calls for it.”

“Keep it that way,” Dean says, and then in an attempt to lighten the now somewhat-sullen mood, “You’re no fun when you’re passed out.”

Cas frowns, and Dean isn’t sure when he met Cas’ eyes (because he wasn’t looking at him goddamnit), but he obviously did at some point in the last few seconds, because now Cas quickly glances away before moving his eyes back to Dean. “I don’t imagine I would be.”  

“We probably should go rescue Sam,” Dean says after a beat, before anything can get awkward. “Then we can go interview some people Kasey knew and try and work out who is – or _was_ – possessed.” It sounds so simple when he puts it that way. But nothing is ever simple. Their job isn’t simple. Even the simple cases aren’t simple, because the entire concept of ghosts and demons and things-that-go-bump-in-the-night isn’t simple. Their entire lives are the complete opposite of simple. 

“Agent Hammet,” Dean says, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder (Sam gets to be Hammet – the lead guitarist of Metallica – because they both have stupid hair). “Could I steal you away for a second?” He gives the officer his best fake-smile-#4 (number one being the ‘I’m fine and not broken smile,’ number two being the ‘I’m not in intense physical pain’ smile and number three being the ‘I’m really flattered by your attention but I don’t want to sleep with you’ smile. The list goes all the way up to number ten, which is his ‘wow, Bobby, your cooking is so great’ smile.) 

“I’ll let you go,” the Officer Who Knew Too Little says, and walks off to go do whatever it is cops do.

“Find anything?” Sam asks when he’s out of hearing-range. 

“Demons,” Cas answers. “Or _demon_ , singular. I can’t tell.”

“Great, so I guess we start off with finding the host,” Sam says, and Dean thinks he really is far too chipper and calm considering a women died where he’s standing not five hours ago. But then again, Dean isn’t exactly Mr I’m-So-Distressed-By-The-Thought-Of-Dead-People either, so he ain’t one to judge. 

Dean exhales heavily and runs a hand over his face. “You want to go talk to the neighbours and we’ll check in with her house-mate?” 

“Girlfriend,” Sam corrects. “Officer Lyndon said she was her girlfriend.” He frowns. “You’re not gonna get all weird about it are you?” Sam, the little shit, seems to be insinuating that Dean is either some homophobic dick or one of those creeps who tries to molest lesbians and hassles them because he is turned on by the thought of two chicks doing the horizontal tango (not to say he isn’t, but when it’s _porn_ , man, not real life). He may be an asshole, but not _that_ much of one.

“Hey, I don’t have a problem that the dead-chick was banging another chick,” Dean says defensively. “Me and Cas will go interview her _girlfriend_ and you can go talk to the neighbours.”

Sam nods and starts off toward the house on their left. “Oh, and Sam,” Dean calls. 

“Yeah?”

“If it’s a crazy-cat-lady, no flirting. I know how tingly you get around old women with dozens of pussies,” Dean sends Sam his best shit-eating grin and receives an easy level-8 bitch face in return. Dean is hilarious. 

Sam walks off and leaves him and Cas – or ‘Special Agent Hetfield’ as his badge reads – alone in the front yard of a dead-lady. Dean wishes that being in the front yard of a dead lady on a weekday morning weren’t as normal as an occurrence for them as it is.

“Okay, before we go,” Dean says to Cas, “we need to lay down some rules.” 

“Like what?” Cas frowns. 

“First of all, just follow my lead. No saying anything about demons or anything supernatural, ‘cause you’ve gotta remember these people don’t know about that stuff, and if they think we’re crazy they won’t talk to us. Second, try not to do that whole staring-into-your-soul thing you do, because it creeps people out. Especially since you have the issues with personal space.” Mentioning personal space, Cas is closer to Dean than would be acceptable for a normal person – close enough that Dean can just about feel his breath – but he’s just learnt to ignore it. 

“And third,” Dean says, “You gotta play the part. If you don’t act like a fed, people aren’t gonna treat you like a fed. Just flash your badge and put it away, especially since yours doesn’t even have your picture on it,” Dean stops and lets his eyes rake slowly over Castiel. “You’ve actually got the whole _authority_ stance pretty down pat. You even come pre-dressed for the role.” Except his tie. His stupid, blue tie that is always on backwards. On instinct, Dean reaches out and straightens it for him, tightening the knot and making sure it sits squarely over his chest. Maybe Dean lets his hands linger for a moment too long on Cas’ chest, and maybe he brushes some invisible non-existent dust off of Cas’ shoulders, just so he doesn’t have to break the contact, but its only because he needs Cas to not stuff up their case by looking stupid. Upon reflection, he doesn’t give a fuck if the contact is broken, which is why he doesn’t slowly graze his hand down Cas’ arm, nearly to his wrist, before pulling away. 

Dean coughs and shakes away the mental-cloud-of-Cas-related-thoughts and walks up the path to the front door, Cas following closely behind. He presses the door-bell which, much to his abject horror, plays the fucking Macarena. Why anyone would want the Macarena as their door-bell is beyond him. 

A second later the door is opened by a crying blonde woman, who looks like every other mourning friend/partner/parent/sibling/colleague/neighbour that they’ve interviewed over the years; same puffy red eyes, same sniffly nose, same shaky composure. It’s all picture-perfect cliché, right down to the photo-album on the coffee table just inside the door.

“Hi, sorry to bother you,” Dean says sympathetically, and it isn’t all an act. He really does feel sorry for the poor bastards left behind when the monster of the day takes it victim. Dean knows what it feels like to suddenly loose someone, and he wouldn’t wish that feeling upon anyone. He guesses that that’s why he does this job; to make sure he can save as many people as he can so as to avoid creating the massive crater of mourning that comes with every missing and/or dead civilian. “Agents Ulrich and Hetfield, FBI. Do you mind if we ask you some questions.”

“But I already spoke to the police,” she sniffles, as if on cue. Sometimes its like their entire lives are built on cliché, or really, really bad writing. Dean feels sorry for Chuck. It must be really fucking tedious to write out every ‘ _but I already spoke to the police’_  and ‘ _why is the FBI interested in this?_ ’ 

“We have to complete our own investigation,” Dean smiles softly. “Please, just a minute of your time.”

“Yeah, okay,” she wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, I just can’t belive Kasey’s –” she lets out a sob and sinks down into an armchair. Dean belives _dead_ would be the word she’s looking for, or maybe _mudered by a blood-thirsty demon_. “I’m Becca,” she says after a moment.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dean replies, sitting down in the armchair across from her. “I was wondering if you could just answer a few routine questions? Some might seem a bit strange, but we’re just ticking all the boxes. We just want to find Kasey’s killer.” And its not a lie, they’re just not FBI agents and they aren’t looking for a human.

She nods and sniffs again, and Dean takes that as a cue to fire away. “Before Kasey was killed, did you notice anything strange?”

“Strange _how_?”

“Anything,” Dean shrugs. “Weird smells, smoke, temperature drops, electricity problems.”

“Well the lights were flickering a bit last night, but it was probably just faulty wiring.” Faulty wiring Dean’s ass. It’s never just _faulty wiring_.

“Okay, that’s good,” Dean nods. “Where were you last night, around the time Kasey was killed?”

“You think…” she turns white and then bright red. “You think _I_ might have killed her?” 

“No, no,” Dean reasurres her, “we just need to get a statement. It’s just part of the investigation process.” 

“Oh, okay,” she sniffs. “I was having a bath and I had music on, so I didn’t hear anything. Then I went to bed and fell asleep.”

“You didn’t notice Kasey was gone?”

“I thought she was just watching TV,” Becca chokes and then starts crying again. Jesus, Sam’s usually the one who deals with the crying girls. “Oh, god it’s my fault isn’t it,” she sobs. “If I’d heard her I might have been able to save her.”

Dean’s about to open his mouth to tell her that it wasn’t her fault (probably very unarticulately, featuring a lot of ‘um’s and ‘no’s) but then Cas is moving around from behind Dean’s chair and crouching down infront of her. “Miss White,” Cas says, his voice low and scratchy and firm; the voice he uses when Dean is being an emotionally-stunted dick who is haunted by his entire fucking existence, “Kasey’s murder was not your fault. We need you to calm down and tell us everything you remember from the days before. Answer Dean’s questions as best you can, because the more we know, the quicker we can find whoever did this.”

Dean frowns and glances down at Cas, because since when could he even be in the same room as a person without intimidating them, let alone actually _reassure_ someone (apart from Dean) and bring their mentality back to something resembling normal? Either Cas has been watching a shit-load of television, Sam’s been giving him secret lessons on how-to-not-scare-people or he’s been digging around in people’s heads. Or maybe he’s just getting better at the whole ‘human’ thing. Dean’s not sure whether to be surprised, confused or proud, and so he goes for all three.

Becca sniffs and nods. “O-okay,” she stutters. “Sorry. What else do you need to know?”

Cas stands up and goes back to standing behind Dean’s chair and watching the proceedings, which isn’t creepy at all. Dean bites his lip and taps his fingers against his knee, looking for a safe was to ask ‘so, did you get possessed by a demon and kill your girlfriend’ without earning him a one-way ticket to the looney bin. “Um, did you black-out at all last night?” he asks. “Any gaps in your memory, or maybe you remember doing things but not being in control?”

“What? No,” she frowns. 

“Okay, what about anyone who might have wanted to hurt Kasey,” sometimes demons will take out the people their host hates, just so they have some sort of order. “Any enemies you know of?”

“Everybody loved Kasey,” she shakes her head. Of course everybody loved Kasey. It’s never as easy as ‘oh, yeah, she was arch enemies with Jackson from down the street.’ The dead people are always perfectly angelic (or, to reiterate, not angelic, because angels have shit-loads of enemies). 

“So there’s no-one you can think of who might have held a grudge, or who she might have been arguing with?” It was a long shot anyway. Chances are she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the demon was bored. 

“I mean, there were people who didn’t like her because she was gay, but no-one hated her enough to _kill_ her.” Yeah, a long shot. 

“Has anyone you know been acting differently lately?” Dean asks. 

“Different how?”

“Just _different_ ,” Dean shrugs. “Maybe doing things they wouldn’t normally do, or being more reserved, or just not acting like themselves.”

She thinks for a minute. “Well Matt from next-door has been a bit off, but I don’t think its anything.”

So the odds are Matt’s their man. “Thanks for your time,” Dean says, giving her a small fake-smile (fake smile #7, the ‘your country loves you, you’ve been very helpful’ smile) and stands up. “If we find anything we’ll be sure to let you know.” Which they won’t because like fuck they’re gonna tell some random chick that her neighbour may or may not be possesed by an actual demon and they’re gonna kill him. That’d go down splendedly. 

Dean claps Cas on the back to indicate that its time to leave and they walk out the door, Dean giving Becca one last appreciative wave. “So what’d you think?” Dean asks when they’re at the bottom of the yard, “neighbour-Matt is the one we should be gunning for?”

“It does sound that way so far.”

“Hey, good job back there by the way,” Dean says, putting a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Getting her to talk and everything. I didn’t know you knew how to be comforting.”

“I comfort you all the time,” Cas frowns.

“But to people other than me. You were as good as Sammy, and he’s practically Oprah.”

“I briefly breached her mind to find what she wanted to hear and then applied techniques I have seen you and Sam use.” Apparently Cas doesn’t know how to take praise. “I can draw you a diagram if you’d like,” he frowns.

“No,” Dean says, stretching the word out. “That’ll be fine.”

Cas tilts his head and stares at Dean, narrowing his eyes. It should make Dean feel more uncomfortable than it does, because Cas is forgetting the ‘personal space’ rule again, and Dean’s got his hand on Cas’ shoulder and he can’t bring himself to look away, but it feels the complete opposite. It’s strangely, stupidly, undeniably _comfortable_ , and Dean hates it. He hates how nice it feels to be around Cas, because it’s a different kind of nice than how it is with Sam. It’s the weird kind of nice that makes him feel all jittery and it’s just… it’s just fucking weird. Dean hates how much he notices the colour of Cas’ eyes, and how he finds himself looking at his lips more often than should be normal. Dean isn’t _in love_ with Cas or anything stupid, because neither of them swing that way, but its scary how good it feels to be near Cas, or to hold his hand, or to just make him smile. 

The material of Cas’ trench-coat is far too farmiliar under Dean’s palm, and he realises that despite his ‘physical contact should be kept to a minimum’ rule, he takes every chance he can to touch Cas, whether it be a hand on his shoulder or a gentle brush as he walks past. Not sure what he’s doing, but not really caring either way, Dean moves his hand, grazing it along Cas’ shoulder to the exposed skin at his neck. His fingers brush against the soft skin just above his collar-bones, curling inward, his finger-nails gently tickling the warm flesh. Dean’s hand moves back toward the side of his neck, and he splays it out, his little-finger reaching up to Cas’ stubbly cheek and his thumb brushing down below his shirt collar. 

Cas should, by all rights, be pushing Dean away and smiting the crap out of him, but he doesn’t. He just stands there staring at Dean like he’s the biggest mystery in the universe, unsolved-case-no#1. Dean has never been that complicated; he kills the bad things, he saves the good people, he looks after Sammy and his car and bangs the occasional chick, and that’s the extent of it. There have been shades of grey everywhere for the last few years, but still, Dean’s been simple in what he wants and how he goes about fixing everything. But from the way Cas looks at him, you’d think he’s a complete puzzle. Or maybe he _is_ a puzzle to everyone, but Cas is the only person who’s ever tried to put the pieces together. 

Cas is the one that Dean doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get why Cas has even bothered trying to complete the puzzle when there are so many pieces missing, and others so warped that they’ll never fit in anywhere. Cas doesn’t understand people, and yet he understands Dean better than anyone ever has, Sammy included. Sam gets his personality and his drive, but Cas gets him in a different way, a way Dean can’t explain. He knows the right things to say, despite Dean being an ass and shaking most of those things off. He doesn’t let Dean shout at him and make unfair, false accusations just because he’s pissed at the world, and gets that even though he might say differently, he doesn’t want him to. 

Dean finds more comfort in Cas’ touch than in anyone else’s in the entirety of his life, and that is so messed up that Dean almost pulls his hand away and punches Cas, just because he can, but then Cas’ eyes do that stupid thing they do, where the light will catch them just the right way and they swallow up all other coherent thought and make the world peaceful and good, just for a moment. Dean’s thumb is still gently stroking Cas’ neck, the contact sending sparks of warmth down Dean’s arm and into the pit of his belly. Dean wants to kiss him. 

_Dean wants to kiss him_.

Holy crap, Dean wants to kiss him. He’s leaping away and wiping his hand against his pant leg, like maybe it’ll wipe away the desire that was so obviously _there_. Dean doesn’t want to kiss Cas. Kissing Cas would make him gay, and Dean isn’t gay. It was another one of those mind tricks, just like on Christmas morning. 

He needs to stop initiating so much physical contact because it makes his head do stupid things. 

Dean clears his throat. “We should go check on Sam,” he says. “If that Matt dude’s the demon then he might need us.”

Crap, Sam might need them and here Dean was fucking _stroking_ Cas’ face and having a meltdown-of-proper-thought. 

“He might,” Cas agrees and without looking at Dean starts off in the direction next-door. 

And now Dean’s offended Cas with his stupid moment of stupid thought. Crap, he needs a drink. His blood/alcohol level is way too low to deal with the fact that for not the first time, his mind convinced itself that he wanted to kiss Castiel. His mind and _him_ are obviously two different things, and just because his mind thought something doesn’t mean he wants it, but the point still stands. 

By the time they reach the neighbour’s front-door, there is dead body in the front entrance and a blood-covered Sam wiping his brow, Ruby’s knife in hand. That just adds another thing to the Reasons Why He Hates His Mind, because if Sam weren’t such a great hunter, he could have been killed and Dean would have been too busy looking at the way the dulled, winter sun makes Cas’ eyes even more blue. 

Once they’ve contacted the police and found an acceptable plausible-for-normal-humans way to justify this case’s outcome, they get the hell out of there. When they’ve settled down in their motel room, Dean grabs the keys, hops in the Impala and drives, allowing himself to freak out without the judging eyes of Cas and Sam. If he hyperventilates a bit and bangs his head against the steering wheel because his mind keeps doing non-heterosexual things, then it’s his own business. He has to constantly repeat that it’s _not Cas’ fault_ , because otherwise he’d end up hating the son of a bitch, just because he doesn’t push Dean away and because his eyes are way too blue. 

It takes two hours for Dean to calm down, by which time he knows again that none of those thoughts were actually real, so he has nothing to worry about. He vows that he’s not going to let the stupid part of his brain take control again and let him do something like stroke Cas’ fucking jawline or hold his hand or stare into his eyes for minutes at a time. He promises himself that _this time_ (because this sure as fuck isn’t the first time he’s made this vow) he’ll stick to it, no exceptions.

No more thoughts about Cas’ eyes or lips or hands or skin because it’s not normal, and not the kind of not-normal that Dean can kill with a silver bullet. No exceptions this time, he tells himself, and so he deliberately ignores the worried look Cas is giving him when he gets back to the motel and refuses to look in his eyes, because he knows that then his entire world will come tumbling down all over again, Cas being, as always, right at the centre of the explosion, as absolutely clueless as ever.  


	20. Chapter Nineteen

Dean’s head has been behaving as of late. It has been four days with zero batches of intense staring between him and Cas, and he hasn’t initiated any unnecessary physical contact and no-one is pissed off at him. But, on the negative side, it’s also been four days since they’ve had a case and Dean is bored.

Usually he’d take Cas out to do something fun – he’d been contemplating going to watch a live baseball game – but since he’s doing everything he can to not be alone with him (just in case his brain does _the thing_ ) and Sam refuses to go do anything even remotely enjoyable, that’s permanently off the agenda. Sam had told him yesterday to stop being hostile toward Cas (which he wasn’t) and so, just to prove Sammy wrong, he’s going to find something to do with Cas, alone. Dean is finished freaking out about everything Cas-related (except the fact that he’s falling, because that demands to be constantly freaked out about) and so there is no problem in them spending some time together. It’s what friends do.

Dean decides that he’ll find Cas a woman to hook-up with, because it really is pathetic that Cas has never been laid, and there has to be a lady out there somewhere that takes Cas’ fancy. The dude’s only (somewhat) human after all.

 

* * *

One thing that Dean does not seem to understand is that Castiel doesn’t like women. But nor does he like men or men dressed like women or any of the other people in this bar. He has no desire to be with anyone in a sexual way, and he has repetitively told Dean so, but still the hunter perseveres.

“Okay, what about her?” Dean asks, pointing to a busty woman with dyed red hair.

“She is a person of no faith,” Castiel replies. She despises the concept of God or any higher-power, thus living a life of abject sin. Castiel may be something of a hypocrite when it comes to sin – he disobeyed God in every way possible – but after an extent, it becomes vulgar.

“What about her then?” Dean asks, gesturing this time to a petite blonde woman wearing a sweater-vest. “She looks all religious.”

“She deals drugs,” Castiel frowns.

Dean groans. “Her?” a brunette woman with green eyes, which are much duller and far less remarkable than Dean’s. “Or is she a serial killer or something?”

“No, she’s not a serial killer.”

“Are you gonna go flirt with her?”                                                    

“I don’t want to _flirt_ with her.”

Dean drops his head down to his chest and groans again. “Dude, is there anyone here that you find even remotely attractive?”

 _You,_ is Castiel’s instant response, but obviously, he doesn’t say it aloud. The only human being he has ever found attractive is Dean, and not specifically because of any one of his physical traits, but because of his soul and inner beauty; things which Dean would inevitably scoff at. Castiel knows Dean’s soul more intimately than he has ever known anything in his life. He grabbed him from the depths of Hell and in doing so, learnt Dean in a way no one else ever can or will.

By no means does he claim to know Dean better than Sam does, or Bobby or Ellen or Jo or any of the other people he’s known for years, but he is connected with him on a level impossible for them to be, even if they tried. Castiel knows that under his layers of clothing Dean has a scar in the perfect shape of a handprint, seared onto his shoulder by angel-grace, and it will never fade. Dean will carry Castiel’s mark until the day he dies.

So yes, there _is_ someone there that Castiel finds ‘even remotely attractive’ but they are not some random woman or man that he has and never will speak to. Beauty cannot be judged in a second with a stolen glance, or in a minute with a shared beer, or in a night full of fumbling hands and sweaty, wanton desire. Beauty takes time to become apparent. Maybe, if it were one of these people whom Castiel had pulled from Hell and branded, who he had given everything for, who had made him go against everything he ever knew and was the catalyst for his fall from grace, then he _would_ find them attractive. But as it is, there is no one but Dean.

He does not want Dean in sexual way, as Dean wants him to want one of these women, but everything still stands. Dean is the most beautiful man Castiel has ever met.

“What’re you looking at me like that for?” Dean grumbles, refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes.

He doesn’t reply, not knowing how to without causing Dean to become angry. “Cas,” Dean says. “Seriously, stop with the staring. No more staring, okay? Put it up there with the hand-holding.”

“Sorry,” Castiel draws his eyes away from Dean and instead looks down at the warn wood of the bar table. Dean, for all the wonderful qualities he possesses, really can be extremely hurtful. Castiel isn’t certain _why_ exactly it hurts so much, just that it does and that human emotions are eternally confusing.

“So,” Dean says slowly, but then doesn’t seem to know where to go with the sentence, trailing off and leaving them with an awkward, heavy silence.

“You should go,” Castiel says after a moment, still not looking at Dean. “Go and enjoy yourself. I’m sure there are plenty of women here you would love to ‘hook-up’ with. They are all very beautiful,” he lies.

“You’re right, they are,” Dean replies, and Castiel can feel his eyes scanning the room. “But I don’t really feel it. Like I said the other night; since Hell, I just can’t find it in me. You should be the one out there. You need to get laid.”

Castiel lifts his head and glares at Dean. “I don’t want to have sex, Dean. Please stop pressuring me to sleep with a woman who I don’t so much as _know_ , when I have no desire to.” They have had this discussion countless times. When – if the time comes – Castiel loves someone in the way Dean is insinuating, then he will sleep with them, but intimacy is something that should be reserved, not given out like spare change.

Dean gulps. “I was just trying to do what I thought you wanted,” he says weakly, licking his bottom lip and looking away.

“You know I didn’t want that, Dean.”

“Then it’s what I wanted you to want!” Dean snaps suddenly.

Castiel frowns. He doesn’t understand. Maybe he _should_ understand, but he _doesn’t_ , and he tells Dean so.

“Never mind,” Dean mumbles in reply.

“Dean –”

“ _Drop it_ , Cas!” he shouts, standing up and knocking his chair over in the process, causing the portion of the bar to look over at them.

Castiel narrows his eyes and lets them follow Dean. “Sit down.” Dean glares at him in response. “ _Sit down_ ,” he says again, more firmly.

Apparently working on the unspoken rule that he must always do the exact opposite to what he is told, Dean stands up and storms out of the bar, leaving Castiel sitting by himself at the table. After a moment, in which there are over two-dozen eyes on him, Castiel stands up and follows after Dean.

“Dean, stop!” he calls, but the hunter just increases his pace. “ _Dean_!”

“Go away, Cas,” he snaps, spinning around.

“Why are you angry?” Castiel asks sharply. As far as he can tell, Dean has no reason whatsoever to be angry at him. There was no reason for him to come apart like he did.

“ _I don’t know_!” Dean yells, kicking the street-lamp next to them, causing it to shudder violently.

“You have no reason to be angry,” Castiel reminds him, but he can feel his own patience wearing thin.

“I always have reason to be angry, Cas. My entire life is fucked up! Give me one good reason _not_ to be angry!”

“You’re right,” Castiel replies after a beat. “You do have plenty of reason to be angry.” He takes a step forward, and Dean mirrors him, retreating further up the foot-path. “But you have no reason to be angry at _me_.”

At that, Dean seems to collapse in on himself. His whole body goes slack and he sighs and runs a hand over his face. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Dean doesn’t apologise lightly, and so he must mean it, as unelaborate as it was. “It’s of no concern,” Castiel reassures him.

“No, you’re right,” he says again. “I was being a dick.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Why do you put up with me, Cas?” Dean asks softly, his voice low and broken. “You should’ve turned tail and run ages ago, but you’re still here, putting up with me and my shit. No one deserves that,” he looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes, and it hurts him to see how shattered he looks again. Castiel had been under no impression that Dean was _better_ , but he had been somewhat happy for the last week or so, but now every inch of hurt and guilt and absolute pain that Dean was showing at his very worst is back.

“Because, as with all your relationships, we are horribly co-dependant on each other. I need you just as much as you need me.”

“No you don’t,” Dean shakes his head. “You’d be fine without me.”

“I’d be _dead_ without you,” Castiel argues.

“No you wouldn’t, because you’d be an angel and there’d be nothing to kill you.”

“I would have wound up dead one way or another,” Castiel smiles humourlessly. “Or if not then I’d still be Heaven’s bitch.” The language feels unfamiliar on his tongue, but it fits.

“But you’d be an angel, like you’re supposed to be!” Dean shoots back.

“Maybe I was never _supposed to be_ an angel! Maybe I was always only supposed to be yours. I _need_ you, Dean! I don’t know how many times I’ll have to tell you before it sinks in, but I _need_ you.”

Dean shakes his head and lets out a defeated chuckle, staring down at the pavement. “Well then it sucks for you, because I’m the worst person in the universe to need.”

“Dean, please look at me,” Castiel says. He isn’t the most articulate, but he knows Dean can read what he means in his eyes and face. He needs Dean to understand.

Dean hesitantly lifts his head and their eyes meet. “You are flawed, Dean,” he says. “There are days when you make everyone around you angry, when you say the most hurtful and offensive things. You’re possibly the most broken man I’ve ever met.” He pauses. “But that’s what makes you so brilliant. You don’t seem to understand how _much_ I need you. I wouldn’t trade my current position, being with you and Sam, for another infinity of being an angel. This is as close to happy as I have ever been, and that happiness is all because of this,” on a whim, completely ignoring the rule, he reaches out and grabs his hand. “Dean Winchester, you are broken, but I’m broken too. Maybe, if you let us, we can be broken together.”

Instead of pulling away, as Castiel expects him to, Dean squeezes his hand and leans forward, resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “You never know,” he sighs, the sound of his voice muffled, “maybe there’s enough working pieces between us to make something whole.”

“We’ll rebuild each other,” Castiel agrees, letting his head fall forward as well, burying it in Dean’s neck, and it feels perfect and right, like two halves of one larger whole slotting together.

It is right then that Castiel realises something. He thinks of the way Dean smiles, and the way his whole body reflects when he’s angry. He thinks of Dean driving, hanging his hand out the window and singing along to classic rock, and Dean fighting and killing monsters, smeared in blood but never looking back. He thinks of every moment they’ve ever shared together, and every bubble of uncertainty and that sick, yet oddly pleasant feeling he gets in his lower stomach and Dean’s eyes in the sunlight and the glow of soul. He _loves_ Dean, he realises. He loves Dean with every inch of his being and he will never stop loving him. This love isn’t necessarily sexual or romantic, and nor is it platonic, but it doesn’t need a name.

He loves Dean, and quite possibly, if the way he clings to him is anything to go by – although he’ll never admit it – Dean loves him as well. But Castiel knows that neither of them will ever voice it and so they’ll be left hanging in this limbo shaped from denial and fear – most of which is on Dean’s behalf. But, just because it isn’t said aloud, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Castiel, for one, loves Dean more than words could ever express and he is _never_ going to let Dean go. His thumb ghosts over the promise ring he bought for Dean and suddenly, it carries a whole new meaning.  

 

* * *

The thing that Dean is most certain of, more than anything ever, is that he isn’t gay. He isn’t gay, and yet more than anything, he wants to hold Cas’ hand, like a stupid, over-romantic teenage girl and bury his head in his neck and breathe in his scent and just be near him all the time.

The thing that Dean is most certain of, more than anything ever, is that no one can ever know this, because he _isn’t fucking gay_. But as long as he doesn’t actually hold Cas’ hand like a stupid, over-romantic teenage girl and bury his head in his neck and breathe in his scent then the whole thing is sure to blow over soon enough.

Dean feels like a teenager.

But, because he isn’t a teenager and he’s a _man_ , he isn’t going to be all weird around Cas, because that’ll just make everything awkward and everyone angry, and instead just continue on like normal (maybe minus the debatably-non-platonic intimacy.) It’s been six days and one shtriga hunt since Dean tried to hook Cas up and ended up baring his soul to him in the middle of the footpath and vowing that they would do whatever it takes to fix each other. They’re now in a small city somewhere in the east of Georgia, and Dean discovered a really great pizza place in the town centre and so he’s gonna introduce Cas to the wonders of pizza. Sam can find his own dinner.

“Hey, Charles Dickens, we’re going for pizza.” Cas has been doing nothing but _read_ for the last few days, excluding of course the short while it took to hunt and kill the shtriga. Personally, Dean blames Sam.

Cas looks up from his book, “Why?”

“Because pizza is good.”

Cas places the motel pamphlet he’s been using as a bookmark into his novel and stands up. “I have a better idea,” he says.

“Better than pizza?” Dean asks incredulously. Nothing is better than pizza, except maybe pie and burgers and Led Zeppelin and sex.

Cas frowns. “It depends on your point of view. I believe this would be a more riveting experience.”

“ _What_ would be?” because amongst all this Cas hasn’t actually voiced his Idea, capital-I.

“It’s a surprise,” Cas smiles, his eyebrows quirking up.

Dean narrows his eyes. “Because that’s not suspicious.”

Castiel turns his head to the side, but his eyes remain on Dean, a smile still ghosting at the corners of his mouth.

“Spit it out!” Dean says, because he hates surprises and it’d be right that Cas suddenly decides he’s going to do something to surprise Dean which, knowing him, will probably include painting their nails and making daisy chains. His birthday isn’t for another ten days, so Cas can save the surprises (which hopefully won’t include painting their nails and making daisy chains) until then.

“I want to give you something of mine, something I’ve never given anyone before.”

Dean freezes. “Uh, Cas… that’s… Cas you don’t… I don’t swing that way, we can’t.” Sentences are overrated anyway. _Jesus, Cas_.

Cas glares at Dean and shakes his head. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Dean,” Cas says, the human idiom rolling heavily off his tongue. “I wasn’t trying to suggest we have sex.”

“Oh,” Dean says dumbly, and then clears his throat. “Well that’s good, because you’re a great guy and all, but I’m not sleeping with you.”

“I have no desire to sleep with you either, Dean. I have no desire to sleep with anyone.”

Dean coughs and wishes he could sink into the floor and pop up a few thousand miles away (but even if he did, Cas, the son of a bitch, would just follow him). Nothing was awkward until Dean instantly assumed Cas was trying to have sex with him. Now nothing _isn’t_ awkward. “So, uh, what’s the surprise then?” Dean asks weakly.

“You’ve shown me countless snippets of human life, and so I was thinking, while I’m still able, I could give you something, _show_ you something, that I have never shown any human before.”

“Will my eyes get burnt out?” Dean asks warily.

Cas narrows his eyes and tilts his head. “Do you really think I would do something that might hurt you?” he says roughly.

“Hey, I was just asking,” Dean replies defensively. “I’d like my eyes to say in my head, thanks.”

“Your eyes aren’t going to get burnt out,” Cas deadpans.  

“Good,” Dean mumbles, throwing on his coat. “Well you’ll need to tell me where we’re going because there’s _no way_ I’m letting you drive my baby.” That would either end in them being dead, the Impala being smashed or a combination of both. Dean’s not letting Cas behind the wheel of any car _ever_ , let alone his baby.

Before Dean can calculate what’s happening, Cas is pressing a palm to his forehead and then they’re outside somewhere, a slight breeze blowing at Dean’s face. “We’re not driving,” Cas says.

“I noticed,” Dean replies flatly, and then turns to take in their surroundings. They’re on the edge of a cliff somewhere, in a small, grassy clearing with large boulders baring the way behind them. To the right and left there is thick pine forest and the cliff in front of them looks sheer and impossible to scale, and Dean feels horribly trapped. “Where are we?” he asks.

Castiel smiles and steps forward, staring out over the edge of the cliff. “The Forest of Dean,” he says, turning back around. “Gloucestershire, England.”

Of course they’re in The Forest of Dean in fucking England. Why wouldn’t they be? They were in Georgia thirty seconds ago, but hey! “ _Why_ are we in The Forest of Dean in Glouces-whatever-shire, England?” Dean asks. It _is_ pretty cool that there’s a whole forest with the same name as him, but still, he would be much more comfortable eating pizza than in the middle of fucking nowhere trapped on the edge of a cliff. He really didn’t need to be angel-zapped here just so he could bask in the fact that he has a forest. Or, well, some other guy named Dean has a forest. Right now, all he has is a sore, throbbing spot on the small of his back, which is just one of many of the weird, stupid side-effects of Angel Express.

“This clearing here is one of the last places on earth that remains completely untouched by humanity,” Cas replies. “The forest itself, although ancient, is in no way undiscovered, but this nook here is unreachable on foot, and so no one has ever found it.”

Dean suddenly feels dirty and violating, because apparently he just ruined one of the last bits of purity on earth. He appreciates what Cas is trying to do and all, and Dean isn’t some environmental nut-job or anything, but if there are places like this left then they should be kept free from humans. It’s the least they can do considering how much they’ve fucked up the planet. “Cas –” he begins, but is cut off.

“Take my hand, Dean,” Cas says, holding out his own.

“Cas –” he tries again, this time meaning to add something about how hand-holding isn’t a thing they do anymore, but is cut off with a sharp ‘ _Dean_.’

“Hear me out,” Cas says. “Or, more, trust my judgement. Close your eyes and take my hand.”

Dean swallows and deciding, what the hell?, what’s the worst that could happen?, squeezes his eyes shut and slaps his right hand down into Castiel’s left. Even though he can’t see, he can feel the world shift around him. It’s an odd feeling, almost like he’s being spun around and around in circles while being clawed at by sharp, invisible finger-nails. But in saying that, it isn’t all together unpleasant. He feels warmer than he ever has before, and sharper and more solid. He can feel every atom of the space he occupies, and those that make up the air around him and Castiel next to him and the grass and stone and earth below his feet. It’s the most goddamn weird thing he’s ever felt.

“You can open your eyes now,” Cas says and slowly, almost expecting them to have moved location again, Dean does. He isn’t sure what Cas just did, but _holy crap_. Everything around him is more vibrant than should be possible, let alone at fuck-knows-what-time at night, there being colours that Dean’s never even seen before. Not _shades_ but whole new _colours_. If he focuses his eyes right, he can see all the way down into the valley below them. He can count the leaves on a tree that has to be about a mile away.

“Holy crap,” he says quietly.

“Look up,” Cas says, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice.

Dean tilts his head back and can’t keep a grin from edging its way onto his face, suddenly stupidly, ridiculously, unexplainably happy. He’s heard people say the sky isn’t actually black before, but he’s never really payed much attention to it. Dean doesn’t really care about colours or whether that’s forest green or army green or aqua or fucking red, but he suddenly understands the beauty people find in _everything_ ; colours, nature, the sky, the moon, the stars… it’s fucking brilliant.

The sky isn’t black, but a deep, midnight blue, with ribbons of pink and purple and dark red twisting through it, littered with stars that – and Dean’s going to hate himself for thinking this – look like thousands upon thousands of diamonds, perfectly sculpted and glowing with a light that is wholly their own. Dean can make out the craters of the moon, which hangs lazily in the right of the sky, the surface softly reflecting the colours of everything else.

A shooting star flies briefly past, and Dean finds himself dragging Castiel down so they are sitting side-by-side on the grass. “What is it, Cas?” he asks, and even to his own ears his voice sounds croaky and filled with awe.

“It’s the world how it truly is,” Cas replies. “It’s everything how God made it, without the filters of human vision.”

“So this is how you see things all the time?” Dean asks, turning his head to Cas and then gasping. “Dude… _wings_ ,” because sure enough, behind Castiel stretches a set of massive wings, and they are, in lack of a better word, beautiful. Dean’s going to have to hit himself later for thinking it, but they are. “They’re beautiful,” he says before his brain has time to catch up to his mouth.

Castiel smiles, and Dean takes that as permission to reach up with his spare hand and run his fingers through the feathers. They’re not how he would have expected angel wings to look – in fact they’re pretty much the opposite – but now that he’s seeing them, he doesn’t know how he could have ever believed anything else. He had thought that if angels actually had wings that weren’t just shadows on a barn wall or burnt silhouettes on the ground, then they’d be all big and white and fluffy, like in the stupid pictures of cupids that you get everywhere. He guesses he should have known better. Cas’ wings are not white, or even black like you see in those gothic pictures of avenging angels, but blue. They are midnight blue where they stretch out from his back, the colour gradually tapering upwards until it ends with the pointed tip of his wings. The dark blue melts gradually into lighter blue, and eventually, it becomes the colour of Castiel’s eyes; because they are _his_ eyes, not his vessels. Dean isn’t sure whether the wings have been altered to suit his vessel, or if the vessel is simply a perfect match to his wings, but either way, they fit together perfectly, and suddenly Dean can’t picture one without the other. There are a few feathers, right up the top, that are a dark, tawny brown, the same colour as Cas’ hair, and then there are others the colour of his stupid, blue tie and some every single shade of blue that can be found in his eyes (which is a lot).

“Dude, you’ve got wings,” Dean whispers lamely, still running his fingers through the surprisingly soft feathers.

“Thank you, Dean, I hadn’t noticed,” Cas says sarcastically, but squeezes Dean’s hand tightly in response.

“They’re –” Dean lets out a broken chuckle. “Jesus, Cas, they’re _you_ aren’t they?” Maybe Dean isn’t making the most sense, but he’s seeing the world as an angel does, and he’s touching angel wings and holding an angel’s hand, so he has an excuse. Dean’s vow has been broken yet again, but right now, he doesn’t give a shit. This is perfect – _Cas_ is perfect – and he’s just gonna let everything be perfect for a little while.

“They are me,” Cas agrees, lifting up his spare hand to run it through his right wing, the opposite one to Dean. “An angel’s wings are a depiction of who they are.  They,” Cas pauses, looking for the right words, “they are who we are, to our deepest essence.”

“Yours are blue,” Dean points out, and then mentally slaps himself because _thanks Captain Obvious_.

“Blue is your favourite colour,” Cas says, and Dean vaguely remembers telling him that, that day just after Christmas in the snow, and more distinctly remembers thinking about kissing him.

Dean laughs – not even sure why he’s so happy, just that he _is_ – and runs his hand along the top of Cas’ wing, spiking up the brown feathers and then smoothing them back down. “Can you feel this?” he asks, looking over at Cas, who was already staring at him. Screw the no-staring rule and the no-hand-holding rule, just for tonight; he thinks they can both agree on that.

“I can feel it,” Castiel confirms. “My wings are just as much a part of me as your hand is.” To accentuate his point, Cas runs his thumb over Dean’s, and Dean feels a shiver that he’s not going to analyse.

Dean smiles and leans forward, resting his forehead against the side of Cas’ head, smiling against his cheek. Normally, Dean would start freaking out right about how, because he’s holding Cas’ hand, and burying his head in his neck and breathing in his scent and doing all of those things he said he would never do. But out here, in this tiny pocket of untouched wilderness, thousands of miles away from anyone they know, Dean doesn’t care. He should be jumping up and running away, absolutely terrified at how right this feels, but he isn’t. He’ll put it down to the fact that there’s nowhere to go unless he flings himself off a cliff opposed to the fact that he doesn’t _want_ to go anywhere.

Cas’ wing moves under Dean’s hand, the muscles rippling, making Dean really register that this is a _part_ of Cas, not an extension or something that was haphazardly slapped on, but _him_. Cas wraps his left wing around Dean like a blanket, the point of it landing on the ground next to him. This should be another cue for Dean to run, but still, he doesn’t. He untangles his fingers from the feathers and brings that hand down rest with Cas’ wing tip on the ground, letting his fingers gently brush the side. Dean closes his eyes against the side of Cas’ face and, mostly subconsciously, presses his hand harder into Cas’, the only break between their warm flesh being the thick band of the promise ring. He pulls back, but only enough to bring his head down onto Castiel’s shoulder.

For a minute, or maybe ten or twenty or fifty – he isn’t really sure – he sits there with his eyes closed, perfectly content and happier than he’s maybe ever been. Finally, he forces his eyes open and then the glory of the night sky overtakes him again, the shining brilliance eradicating everything. But then Cas’ eyes catch his and the world is forgotten, and all there is, is them, together, their hands entwined, Castiel’s wing around Dean and even their breathing perfectly in sync. Dean is momentarily tempted to just lift his head and kiss Cas – it would be so easy to do – but he doesn’t, because it’d ruin the moment and everything they have would go down the drain. Instead he just allows his head to remain on Cas’ shoulder, and eventually, Castiel’s head drops as well to rest on top of Dean’s.

Dean knows that Castiel’s smile mirrors his own, and he feels a tickle in the pit of his stomach, which is another thing to add to the list of Things He’s Not Going to Analyse. He moves his hand, letting the pads of his fingers ghost over Cas’ own but never fully letting go, there always being at least two fingers twisted together. He loses track of how long they sit like that, never speaking a word and simply watching the stars together, Dean fully content to never move. Once, three meteors flash past in quick succession, and Dean lets out a light laugh, which in turn makes Cas chuckle, a sound so rarely heard that it makes Dean smile even wider.

Eventually, when soft oranges and yellows begin to overcome the purples and dark blue, signalling the coming of dawn, Cas whispers, his voice even scratchier than usual from disuse, “We should get back to the motel.”

Dean nods in agreement and slowly, Castiel pulls his grace from Dean, the world returning to normal, but he hardly notices because the sunrise catches Cas’ eyes in just the right way and makes them shine gold and silver and _stupid, stupid_ blue. In a beat, they’re back in their motel room in Georgia, where it’s still dark, probably only just having passed midnight. Even though all reason tells him to, Dean doesn’t let go of Castiel’s hand and Cas doesn’t let go of his. Together they sink into his bed, their limbs tangling together and their faces close enough that Dean can feel every inhale and exhale that Cas makes. They fall asleep as one, and the last conscious thought Dean has before morning is that angel’s don’t sleep, but he doesn’t really care, because he knows that whatever happens, whether he’s an angel or a human, Cas is his, and he’s not gonna change that for the world.

 


	21. Chapter Twenty

In Sam’s opinion, this whole thing is getting ridiculous. He’d gotten home last night from the library (where he’d been brushing up on Greek mythology, just in case) to find Dean and Cas sharing a bed together, _cuddling_. Sam doesn’t even know what his brother and his semi-angel are to each other anymore; friends, friends-with-benefits (the thought makes Sam shudder, because as supportive as he is that’s not something he needs to see), _boy_ friends… it’s gotten to the point that he’s not even sure if _they_ know what they are.

And so he finds himself cornering Dean on his way out of the motel while Cas is showering (apparently deeming himself human-enough to need to wash now), which is either going to end in Dean punching him, Dean laughing in his face and then punching him or Dean getting so offended he punches him. But, because Sam is an altruist, he’ll suffer a black-eye if it means his brother will admit things to himself for once. Besides, he thinks he’s going to implode soon because it’s just so frustrating to watch. “Dean.”

“Sam,” Dean replies flatly. 

“Dean…” oh God this is awkward. But then again, he _is_ trying to find a way to say ‘ _hey Dean, did you by any chance turn gay for Castiel, because if you did then I’m totally okay with it. Oh, and if you haven’t told him yet then you need to because I don’t think I can take much more of your angst-filled staring_ ’ without getting punched. The odds of him _not_ getting punched are looking less and less hopeful with each passing second. 

“Sam…” Dean replicates his tone and then rolls his eyes. “Okay, spit it out. What’d you sleep with?”

Sam coughs in surprise. “What? No I didn’t… I didn’t sleep with anything, Dean, what’d you think…” but then he decides it’s probably best not to ask. 

“Well there was that time with the chick that wasn’t actually a chick.”

“I told you nothing happened there!” Sam hisses. “I didn’t know she was actually a man. We didn’t get past first base.” 

Dean grins widely and slaps him on the shoulder, shoving past and opening the door. Crap, Dean deserves an award for his deflection skills, he really does. Sam had forgotten the entire purpose of this conversation for a moment there, because Dean brought up the Thing He Vows Never to Speak of Again, probably just because he knew it’d take Sam’s mind off the issue at hand. Sam swears to God that nothing happened and he _didn’t mean it_. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam presses the door shut with his back. “We need to talk.”

“Fine, but make it quick.”

“Why, where’ve you got to be?” Sam’s guess is nowhere specific, just somewhere away from feelings and talking and little brothers who are honestly beginning to worry about their older brothers even more than usual. 

“ _Pie_ ,” Dean says pointedly.

“Yeah, okay. I won’t beat around the bush then,” Sam takes a deep breath. “Seriously dude, what’d up with you and Cas?”

Dean frowns. “What d’you mean ‘what’s up with me and Cas’?”

“I mean,” Sam says, trying to find a delicate way to put it, because if he can, he’d prefer avoiding getting clocked one, “are you two, _you know_.”

“Are we _what_?” 

“Are you two _together_?” Sam says bluntly. 

Dean blanches. “Dude,” he chokes, and Sam’s waiting for the hit. “I’m not… I’m not with Cas. I’m not…” the tips of his ears turn red. “I’m not _gay_ , Sammy.” 

“I know you’re not gay, but there are more sexualities than just gay and straight.”

“Yeah, and I’m straight,” Dean says, shoving Sam out of the way and barging out the door. “There’s nothing going on between me and Cas,” which if anything, just convinces Sam even more otherwise. 

It then occurs to him that Dean may very possibly be in love with Castiel and not even know it. It makes him sad to remember that Dean’s never been in love (one night stands don’t count as love in any version of reality) and now that he might be (or who’s he kidding, probably _is_ , because he’s so obvious about it a blind man could see it) he’s pushing it down and denying it because he’s Dean and Cas is a guy. But frankly, even if Cas wasn’t a guy Dean would probably still be in denial because he’s _Dean_. 

Sam isn’t going to interfere though, because it’s not his place. As much as the prospect haunts him, he’s going to sit by and watch his brother and his brother’s angel engage in God-knows-how-many more weeks of eye-sex. He never thought he’d think it so adamantly, but he just wants to get back to killing things. 

* * *

Dean is maybe starting to hate pagan deities more than witches, and that’s saying something. They are like super-powered witches with a virgin-fetish and a still unhealthy obsession with bodily fluids and charred bones and baby skulls. 

“Are you _sure_ it’s Dionysus?” he asks for maybe the third time.

“ _Yes_!” Sam snaps, also for the third time. 

“It’s not just, like… a ghost?” Dean asks hopefully. He knows it’s not a ghost because ghosts don’t usually crash strings of high-school proms and kill the prom king and queen. All the evidence they’ve collected so far points directly at Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, woman and parties, which usually Dean would be all for, except then he started killing people and ruined any inch of appreciation Dean might’ve had for him.

“It’s definitely Dionysus,” Cas says. “The criteria are all wrong for a ghost.” He frowns. “You should know that. I can go through the usual signs of a ghost if you’d like me to. The first indication is usually a drop in temperature, but that can also be associated with demonic activity so –”

“Cas.”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Shut up.”

Cas’ glares at him and turns his head away, staring dramatically toward the wall of their motel room (because the son of a bitch is a complete drama queen, which is why him and Sam get along). 

Dean sighs. “So how do we kill Dionysus?” He pauses. “Wait no, let me guess, we need a three-thousand-year-old Greek fir tree dipped in tiger blood and left to marinate for a month, before being charred lightly in the fires of Mount Olympus and seasoned with shaved Minotaur tusk.” 

“A basic brass dagger should work,” Cas frowns. “And Minotaur’s don’t have tusks.” 

“Minotaur’s are like unicorns. They don’t exist, so they don’t have anything.” 

“Of course unicorns exist,” Cas says, and Dean can’t tell whether he’s being serious or messing with him, because Cas never makes jokes and doesn’t have a joking-face. 

“Wait… _seriously_?” Sam asks in his place, and Dean snorts because he sounds so excited at the prospect of real, live flesh-and-blood-and-rainbows-out-of-their-asses unicorns. It’s either endearing or pathetic, Dean can’t tell. 

“Of course,” Cas sounds genuinely concerned that they don’t believe in unicorns. And, _holy_ _crap_ , when did his life become something that required him to believe in fucking _unicorns_? Jesus, things used to be so normal and as-simple-as-a-Winchester’s-life-could-ever-get. Just thinking about unicorns makes him feel like a seven-year-old girl. 

“But unicorn’s are officially on the bull-crap list,” he argues. “I’ve never heard of any hunter coming across a unicorn. _Or_ a Minotaur. I think we’d notice if there were glittery horses and big bull-men with pointy horns running around ganking people.” 

“Once upon a time you didn’t believe in angels either,” Cas reminds him, and Dean doesn’t know how to reply to that except with a disgruntled huff. Cas squints at him, all stupid blue-eyes and frown-induced-crinkles and stubble, and it makes Dean uncomfortable. But apparently his eye’s don’t agree because as much as he (half-heartedly) tells them to, they don’t move off of Cas. 

“Anyway,” Sam coughs after a moment, and Dean glares at him because he can feel him assuming that him and Cas have a _thing_ , “you said a brass dagger would kill Dionysus?” Cas nods. “And there’s no special spell or anything,” Sam clarifies. “Or a certain place we have to stab him?” 

Cas and Sam keep discussing important god-killing things, and Dean tries to listen (he really does), but then his mind wanders to Minotaurs and unicorns and then angels, and then by default Castiel, and then, as much as we wishes it wouldn’t, Castiel’s eyes and a week ago in that clearing in The Forest of Dean when they had done nothing but hold onto each other and watch the stars. Since that night, when they had fallen asleep beside each other, still entwined, Dean’s been finding it harder and harder to stop his world from turning into a symphony of dark blue wings and Castiel’s rough palm and that intoxicating scent of his; like ozone and cinnamon; and the way he feels when he’s near Castiel and those light blue eyes that make Dean almost breathless every time he sees them, and how absolutely, irrevocably _not in love_ he is with Castiel. 

He’s not in love, but he _is_ drowning. 

It suits, he thinks; one falling angel and one drowning hunter, both as lost as each other and both slowly sinking toward their destination, but unlike Cas, Dean doesn’t know where he’s going. All he knows is that whatever he does, his entire future will be encased in varying shades of blue, because that’s all his life is now; _blue_. There is the metaphorical blue of his inner desolation and guilt, the searing, burning blue of the hottest Hell fires that still dance across his vision when he closes his eyes, the vibrant midnight-blue of Castiel’s wings, the blue of his stupid, backwards tie and then there’s the blue of his eyes, which haunt Dean maybe more than all the other’s put together. It’s those eyes that are the foremost reason he’s sinking and can’t seem to come back up. 

***

“Time to suit up,” Sam says the next evening, walking into the motel room with three of those suit bags that look disconcertingly like body-bags. 

“Did you honestly just tell us to _suit up_?” Dean asks, because they’re not fucking superheroes or spies or James Bond so they don’t _suit up_. Although, it would be pretty cool if they were all superheroes or spies or James Bond, because even their shit-filled-lives are full of less shit than the primarily shitty lives of Sam and Dean Winchester and their angel Castiel. _Sam and Dean Winchester and their angel Castiel_. It sounds like a really bad 70’s children’s movie.

“Shut up,” Sam says, thrusting two of the bags at him. 

“What’re we moonlighting as tonight?” Dean asks, trying to manoeuvre around the beer in his hand to undo one of the zips.

Sam scows and snatches the bottle out of his hand, slamming it down on the table. “Hey!”

“You’ll spill it on one of the suits,” he says, like a bitch. “They cost a small fortune.”

“We run credit-card scams,” Dean reminds him, and then something clicks. “Wait, what kind of suits? We already have fed suits.”

“Tuxedo’s,” Sam says, unzipping the top of his bag, revealing what may as well be a penguin-costume. 

“Uh, Sammy, I think we’re a bit old to pass as kids at a high-school dance don’t you think?” For one, Sam is a Sasquatch, for another, they’re all way too not-gangly and pimply to be teenagers, and lastly, _wrinkles_ , man. If Sam weren’t stupidly buff and tall, then _maybe_ he could pass as a (really matured) high-school student, but Dean’s thirty in _a few days_. Holy crap, Dean’s thirty in a few days. It’s January the 21 st now, which means its three days until his birthday. _He’s gonna be thirty._

“We’re not being students, we’re going as caterers,” Sam says, snapping Dean out of his _holy-crap-I’m-getting-old_ thoughts. “It was the best cover I could come up with on short notice. I’ve organised it so no one will think we’re out of place.” 

“Using your Super Dooper Hacking Program?” 

Sam snorts. “Yeah, using my Super Dooper Hacking Program.” Then he frowns and looks around. “Where’s Cas?”

“Outside,” Dean says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. “He was going to read because I kept annoying him.” Cas was being boring and so Dean had taken it upon himself to make every single irritating noise known to man, and it was fun for a while, but then Cas had gotten fed up and left and then everything was boring again.

“Give me the tuxes and go get him,” Sam orders. “We’ll want to get moving if we want to get there before the majority of the people arrive. It’d probably be best not to stab someone in the neck in front of a bunch of teenagers.” 

“Your bossy voice makes me all tingly, Sammy,” Dean says, accompanied with his ‘deliberately screwing with Sam because his reactions are hilarious’ grin. Sam – as predicted – gives him a bitch face and snatches up his and Cas’ penguin suits. Dean raises his eyebrows tauntingly and walks out the door, relishing in Sam’s irritableness.  

He walks out of the motel room with every intention of just yelling for Cas to get his ass back inside so they can get on with some god-hunting, but then he’s stopped short by a number of things, all mixing together to make one final Thing that takes Dean’s breath away, as much as he wants to say it didn’t. It’s just after five-thirty in the evening and the sun is beginning to set, making everything – despite the considerable blanket of snow – a warm, bright orange. Cas sits on the hood of the Impala, which is parked over the other side of the motel car-park, one hand resting back against the hood and the other holding the book he’s reading ( _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee, not that’s Dean’s been paying enough attention to notice). One of his legs is crossed casually over the other, and he looks the very picture of nonchalance. The kicker though – the thing that makes Dean’s lungs constrict and his palms feel all funny and tingly –  is the way the sun catches him, casting half his face in sharp shadow and the other in soft, orange light. His skin seems to glow golden, and his eyes… well, holy fuck, if Dean weren’t already so beyond that point, he’d just have drowned all over again. 

And then there are the wings.

Dean isn’t sure how exactly angel’s wings work; whether they can choose to make them visible to everyone if they want, or if you have to be wearing angel-contact-lenses to see them or if all they really are to humans is an invisible band of nothing that sometimes casts a half-formed shadow. But the mid-Winter, mid-evening sun not only gives off an image of Castiel as he is in human form, but his _wings_ as well. There are dark shadows stretching behind him in the exact, undeniable form of wings, and Dean isn’t sure whether it’s just because he knows what they are, or if they’re actually that perfect. He can make out the ghost of each individual feather as it’s tousled by the breeze; he can remember what if felt like to have those wings wrapped around him, how safe and complete he felt beneath them. 

Sitting there on the hood of his car, with his wings _there_ but also _not_ and the sun bathing him in the perfect contrast of light and dark, Castiel looks beyond description. If Dean found men beautiful, then Cas would be beautiful. If Dean were even slightly gay, then he would be more in love with every inch of Cas then he’d ever be able to admit. He’d want to run over and grab him by his lapels and drag him into a rough kiss, and Cas would laugh against his mouth and wrap his arms around Dean’s waist and spin them around in small circles, doing nothing but kissing and laughing and being. Then they’d sink back against the hood of the Impala, but they wouldn’t be cold because they’d keep each other warm, Cas’ wings blanketing them both and their hands pressed tightly together, both of them able to feel Dean’s promise ring and knowing what it meant. They’d watch the sunset together, except Dean wouldn’t really be looking at the sky, he’d be looking at Cas, smiling at the look of wonderment on his fact and laughing gently when he remarked on how beautiful Creation is, and then Dean would kiss him and lay his head on his chest. When it finally got dark, they’d lay there for a while longer, just whispering to each other, talking about nothing and everything at the same time, content never to move. Eventually they would get up and go inside, except their room wouldn’t be a crappy motel room in Tennessee, but somewhere that they could call _home_ , somewhere where they were safe and had their own bed and didn’t have to worry about who’s blonde hair that was in the plug hole and whether that stain on the sofa was soup or something more sinister. Before they went inside, Cas still holding Dean’s hand tightly, he’d look back at where they’d lay, and there’d be a perfect handprint in the snow on the Impala’s lid, and if Dean were to measure it, it’d be exactly the same as the one on his shoulder, and he’d know that it meant Castiel was his, and that they were something special. And then Cas would tell Dean he loved him and Dean would tell him he loved him as well, and they’d spend the rest of the evening doing nothing and everything and continuing to simply _be_.

But Dean isn’t is love with Cas, and he isn’t even slightly gay, and so he doesn’t long for any of that, and he doesn’t just want to go grab Cas now and make what he can of the vision with what little they have. Because Dean isn’t in love with Cas and isn’t even slightly gay, he walks over and without his voice croaking or his breathing being laboured, tells Cas it’s time to go inside so they can get a move on. 

He doesn’t gasp lightly when Cas’ hand (probably by accident) brushes his and he doesn’t feel a strange mix of sadness and joy and fear when he sees the perfect hand-print left behind on the hood of the Impala, and nor does he press his own hand against the cold metal of the car where the snow’s been brushed away and for a moment let himself once again be overcome by the stupid, petty daydream of them being happy. And he doesn’t – more definitely than anything in the universe – have any non-platonic feelings toward Cas, except maybe he kind of _does_ , and it scares the living crap out of him.

***

Dean now remembers why he never did high-school dances when he was in high-school. Not only are they all-‘round absolutely _lame_ , but the smell of perfume and cologne is overpowering and the music absolutely sucks. And by _lame_ he means fucking pathetic to the point he’s considering just pulling up a chair and going to sleep. He’s standing against the wall in a tuxedo (with a bow-tie and everything, and he doesn’t feel anywhere near as much like James Bond as he’d have hoped) watching girls with overdone makeup and boys who are either drowning in their tuxes or look like the Incredible Hulk in a wetsuit dancing to an annoying top-40 song that sounds like every single other annoying top-40 song that’s been played since they arrived here. 

“ _You and Cas stay here and keep an eye out for Dionysus_ ,” Sam had said. “ _I’ll go check around the back of the stage._ ” Dean had argued that he might need back-up and so he should definitely go with him (and it wasn’t a lie) and Cas would be fine keeping an eye on the throngs of smelly teenagers, but Sam had raised the point that if the god made a move in front of people, then they’d need more than one person to push their way through the crowd and gank him. Dean hates Sam and his logic, because now he’s stuck here with some song about _getting low_ hurting his ears and Robo-Cop, who isn’t even trying to make conversation while Sam is off quietly checking out the back of the premises, actually getting to do _something_. 

Dean fiddles with the cuff of his tuxedo, just to give his hands something to do. He’s itching for something to happen. Turns out Cas’ god-detector is malfunctioning, so they’ve got no way of knowing which one of these people (if any, they’re not even sure if they’ve got Dionysus’ pattern right) is the multi-murdering, ancient psychopath. _And it’d fucking help if they played some real music._

Dean’s got his head tilted backwards, resting against the wall, eyes closed, when the song about _low_ ends and the first chords of a new one ring out. Dean’s head snaps forwards. _Chords_. Only songs have chords, not electronic, rap shit. _Chords from an acoustic guitar. Chords from an acoustic guitar being played by Bob Dylan_. 

“Dude,” he grins, turning to Cas, who’s leaning against the wall a few feet down from him.

Cas sends him a confused look, so Dean elaborates. “They’re playing a good song!” Cas still looks confused, probably because ‘all music sounds the same’ to him or whatever. “Knocking on Heavens Door. Bob Dylan. As in, _real music_.” Dean chuckles happily and begins to sway to the music, lip-syncing along with the ‘ooo’s. _Real fucking music_.

Cas frowns and stays absolutely still. “You look pained, Cas,” Dean points out, in-between singing, because there is a universal law stating that one must always sing Knocking On Heavens Door when it comes on, especially when one is Dean Winchester. 

“I’m not…” Cas trails off, tilting his head incredulously at Dean’s dancing (which mostly comprises of swaying, the occasional spin and dramatic shoulder gestures). 

“Dance,” Dean urges, mainly just ‘cause he wants to see Cas dance, because it’ll no doubt look absolutely ridiculous, and sometimes they need a little bit of ridiculous in between the evil, homicidal Greek gods and demons and far too much nearly-dying to be healthy. 

“I can’t _dance_ ,” Cas says, saying the last word like it might leap off his tongue and bite him. 

“Just follow the music,” Dean replies as the lyrics start, not mentioning that he can’t actually dance either. But Cas won’t know that. He’ll probably think Dean is the next Baryshnikov, when in reality he has never done more than sway a bit and wave his arms around to annoy Sammy and slow-dance _once_ , about a million years ago. 

Cas frowns and then sways slightly, still stiff and looking more like he has something unpleasant stuck up his ass than like he’s dancing. Dean snorts and takes a step forward. “Let your body loosen,” he says, putting his hands on Cas’ upper arms, just below his shoulders.

Cas stays still, so Dean forcefully sways his body for him, and after a moment Cas is moving of his own accord. “See, it ain’t that hard,” Dean smiles, and Cas returns the gesture.  Dean means to let go, but something in him urges otherwise and, because he’s a Winchester, he does the opposite of what reason says he should and lets one hand slide down gently to rest on Cas’ waist. 

Cas doesn’t even hesitate (and Dean’s not going to analyse what that says about their relationship) before resting his own hand on Dean’s hip, and slinging the other over Dean’s outstretched arm, his fingers bunching up the black material of his tuxedo. Dean – who had been singing up until this point – lets his voice fade away, and meets Cas’ eyes, smiling again, because holy crap it’s messed up, but this is really, really nice. Dean isn’t the dancing type, but maybe, as with everything, Cas is the one exception.

Dean glances around him at the teenagers, who still have so much life ahead of them, and Dean feels like an old man thinking it, but it’s true; either dancing with their partner or standing off to the side eating or scowling at the fact some good music is playing. The room – which looks like a gym and an auditorium hybrid, with a large dance-floor and a stage – is bathed in a soft pinkish-red light, it glinting off of the painted cardboard stars that hang from the roof and the glittery swathes of material draped on the walls to try and hide the peeling paint. The whole atmosphere is cheesy and looks like a scene out of every single chick-flick Dean’s had the misfortune to see. One of those people out there, he thinks, is probably dancing with the ugly-girl-transformed-into-super-model that he truly loves instead of his hot-but-bitchy-cheerleader-girlfriend and then they’ll win prom king and queen and kiss and the credits will roll.

Except this isn’t a cheesy chick-flick, and if they do win prom king and queen and they don’t kill Dionysus soon, then the happy couple will be dead. 

Dean’s gaze only lingers on the crowd for a moment before being drawn back to Cas, who looks ridiculous in his tuxedo, but so does Dean, so he can’t really judge. Dean finds himself leaning forward, and he can feel Cas doing the same, and for a moment he thinks they’re going to kiss and is about to jump away and drive to fucking Australia because he doesn’t want to kiss Cas (because Cas is a guy goddamnit) but then their faces just end up side by side, their torsos pressed together and their hands gripping each other tightly, Cas’ slotting perfectly over the print on Dean’s shoulder. 

The chorus fades into the second verse, Dylan singing about putting his guns in the ground, and Dean’s entire world is taken over by music and the feel of Castiel. Cas sighs against his cheek and Dean feels something bubble in the pit of his stomach, like lust but… different. _Good_ different.  

Dean feels his eyes drift shut, a decision made subconsciously. He turns his face to the side and lets his nose nuzzle into Cas’ hair, breathing deeply; feeling as well as smelling the ozone and cinnamon and sharp, untraceable scent that might just be _Castiel_. Dean spins them around slowly, his fingers gently caressing Cas’ hip, which makes Cas tighten his grip on Dean’s own. The world is lost; overcome by flowing guitar chords, resounding bass notes and the smooth drone of Bob Dylan’s voice; Cas’ hand gripping his shoulder, his other hand moving carefully up to the small of Dean’s back, his eternal-bed hair – which feels remarkably like feathers – tickling Dean’s face, his breath ghosting against his cheek, then his ear, then his neck. 

Dean doesn’t let himself think about the fact that he is slow-dancing with Castiel at a high-school prom, surrounded by glittery decorations and streamers and hundreds of other dancing people, lots of them probably looking, horrified, at the two grown-men dancing with each other like the rest of the universe is irrelevant, because right now, the rest of the universe _is_ irrelevant. They don’t really move much, restricting themselves to swaying and moving their feet in sync, Dean occasionally spinning Cas around, _just because he can_ , and Cas once doing the same, making Dean let out a surprised, breathy laugh. 

He can feel Cas smiling as clearly as he can feel both their hearts beating, the rhythm’s scarily together. Dean barely notices as the song finishes, except for the fact that Cas loosens his grip, but Dean pulls him back in, – and he’ll be fucked if he knows why – Cas not letting up a fight, and they continue to hold to each other and dance to a song Dean’s never even heard about some guy named _Drew_ being sung by a girl with a whiny, country accent, but he doesn’t really give a fuck.  

The bubble in the pit of his stomach hasn’t left, and instead, over the past few minutes, has grown and expanded into a tidal wave, which is hanging in the air and waiting to crash down on Dean. Or maybe it crashed down long ago, and that’s why, all this time, he’s been drowning.

* * *

Sam isn’t sure how to feel when he re-enters the main portion of the building, hoping the black of his jacket hides that fact he’s covered in Greek-god blood, to find Dean and Castiel slow-dancing to Taylor Swift. ‘Nothing going on’ his ass. 


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

The days pass quickly, uneventfully, and before Castiel knows it, it’s the morning of the 24th and Sam is pulling him aside while they stock up on groceries, Dean over the other side of the store filling his basket with alcohol while he and Sam are in charge of the more basic items. 

“Hey Cas,” Sam says quietly, glancing over toward Dean to make sure he isn’t listening.

“Yes?”

“It’s Dean’s birthday today and –”

“It’s Dean’s birthday?” Castiel hadn’t known that. He supposes that the topic was never breached, and it is among the ‘trivial’ things he had no need to learn about Dean until he _did_. He files the information away with all the other things he needs to remember about Dean.

Sam seems taken aback. “You didn’t know?”

“It wasn’t important.”                   

Sam frowns, but then his features loosen and he continues. “Anyway, I was thinking we could do something nice for him. Not a party or anything obviously, just get him a cake and a present to show we know it’s today.”

“I didn’t know it was today,” Castiel frowns, but Sam just shrugs.

“You do now. There’re birthday cards over by the register, and I think there’s cake in the refrigerator section.” He pauses. “I don’t know how Dean will react; we’ve always just skipped over birthdays.”

“He prefers pie over cake.”

“What?”

“Dean prefers pie opposed to cake. I understand that it’s traditional to have cake on birthdays, but Dean prefers pie.” Dean prefers pie to just about everything; he has said as much himself. 

Sam blinks. “Yeah, okay,” he says after a moment. “The pie’s over with the cake anyway.”

Sam, his basket full of toiletries, water-bottles, food and an amassment of salt, walks toward the till. “Sam!” Castiel calls. 

“Go get some pie,” he replies off-handily, leaving Castiel standing in the middle of the store. He stares after Sam, wishing that he could maybe have some help choosing something for Dean. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his own judgement, because he does, the last gift he bought Dean did end up being a hit (after the initial confusion as to its intent was over), more that Sam knows more about Dean when it comes to things like this. 

He wanders over toward the cold-section, stopping to sniff a scented candle (rosewood and lavender) and trying not to knock any of the precariously set-out shelves over, which is harder than he would have thought, and he very-nearly sends a rack of magazines toppling over. He vows to give humans more credit for the ease with which they shop, because he is finding it increasingly difficult, because even without the bad layout of the store, there are massive number of varieties and brands of _everything_. There is apple pie, cherry pie, apricot pie, and at least half a dozen other flavours, and then there are the different brands, and he doesn’t know whether they want ‘snack pies’ or a ‘family pie.’ It’s very complex.

“Don’t leave the door open, you’ll let the cold air out,” Dean says, walking around the corner, a basket overflowing with alcohol and snack-foods in his hand. He smiles and leans against the refrigerator door, making it swing shut and seal with a puff of air. “Why’re you buying pie anyway?”

“I told Sam you’d prefer it to cake.”

“Why were you buying…” he trails off, and then glances up at Castiel with a raised eyebrow. “Wait, _birthday_ cake?”

“That’s generally what cake consumed on the anniversary of your birth is called, Dean.” Castiel says flatly, and Dean mimics him in a falsetto voice.

“Did Sam put you up to this?” he asks after a moment.

“It was a mutually-agreed plan.”

“I don’t need a birthday party, Cas. I’m thirty.”

“We’re not throwing you a birthday party. We’re doing something nice for you.” It was obvious that Dean was going to put up a fight, because he doesn’t like when other people do nice things for him. It occurs to Castiel that Sam might not have wanted Dean to know until it was too late for him to argue, but now an argument is almost inevitable. 

“You don’t need to do something nice for me!” Dean says sharply, turning away from Castiel.

“We _want_ to.”

“Cas –” he turns back around, running a hand over his face. Castiel can tell that he is about to go on a tirade about how he _doesn’t deserve nice things_ or how _birthdays are just another day_ or how _it’s not their job to decide if he wants to celebrate or not_ , but Castiel doesn’t give him a chance.

“ _Dean_ ,” he says sharply, taking a step forward, putting enough strength into the word that he doesn’t need to elaborate. 

Dean meets his eyes then deflates. “ _Fine_ ,” he mumbles. 

“Which pie would you like?” Castiel asks, trying to change the topic to something that will not end in Dean doing what he so adamantly denies as being _sulking_. But it works because Dean instantly brightens up. 

“What is there?” he takes a step back and runs a hand over the frosted glass of the door, leaving smudge behind, which, if anything, makes it harder to see inside. “These fridges suck,” he mutters under his breath as he pushes Castiel out of the way and opens the door. 

After several bouts of frustrated swearing because there are “so many fucking types,” Dean settles on a box of small apple pies and shoves them into Castiel’s basket. He pays for both of their groceries with a credit-card (which is, as Castiel is beginning to learn, undoubtedly illegal and under the name of some musician), and blatantly ignores Sam, who seems to be trying to sign the birthday card without Dean seeing. 

Sam holds him back for a moment while Dean loads the car. “I got one for you to give him as well,” he says, handing over a brightly coloured A3 card with _Happy Birthday!_ written across the front in rainbow block letters and a pen. 

Castiel frowns and looks up at Sam. He knows the concept behind birthday greetings perfectly well, but knowing and doing are two very different things, as he has found out before. There are many human things, such as showering (he dropped the bar of soap far too many times to be deemed dignified) and cooking toast (it was, as Sam said, “not even toast anymore” when it popped back up, and Dean looked close to shooting the motel fire-alarm because it wouldn’t stop beeping), that look much simpler than they are, so he’s decided that if there is even a slither of confusion he will ask.

“Just write _to Dean, happy birthday, from Cas_ or something,” Sam says. “It’s uh,” he suddenly won’t meet Castiel’s eyes, “it’s kind of like the ring you bought him.” 

“Thank you Sam,” he replies, not sure why Sam seems uncomfortable. “I’ll join you in the car in a minute.” 

Sam nods, and Castiel walks over to the nearest flat surface – the wall of the store – and presses the card against it. 

_‘To Dean_ ,’ he writes, and then pauses, not sure where to go next.

 _‘Happy birthday_ ,’ he begins after a moment. ‘ _I have not gotten you a gift, because I didn’t know that today held any significance until Sam told me, but I know that you won’t mind because you it is against your will that we are even celebrating. But I ask you, Dean, please let yourself be happy; let yourself have things done for you. Sam and I can try, but we can’t make you happy unless you let us.’_

The words are now flowing freely, and isn’t sure where they’re coming from, but he lets himself write, because these are things that Dean needs to hear, and he has a problem with _listening_.

_‘I very much hope that you are happy, at least somewhat. This is not specifically in relation to your birthday, more to your life in general. I am not asking you to forget the things you’ve seen and what you’ve become in the past, because I know more than most that some memories stay with you forever, but let me – and Sam – help you move forward. Do the things that you enjoy. You will find that you’ll be able to find balance in your life between hunting and everything else if you allow so._

_‘Maybe I’m a hypocrite. I never managed to find balance between Heaven and Earth, but maybe that was because I didn’t need to, and you_ need _the balance. I’ve never had a reason to_ want _to be happy before, Dean, but now I have you, and Sam, and this life, and I don’t even need Heaven anymore. I have come to terms with the fact that I am falling, and have accepted it wholeheartedly. To be honest, I don’t care anymore, because as long as things stay the way they are now then I’ll have everything I need._

 _‘I am not always happy with my state, but truly, I didn’t know how to_ be _happy when I was an angel. I wouldn’t change anything, and I would make the same choices over and over and over again, because as broken as all of our existences are, they are enough._

_‘And so, Dean Winchester, happy birthday. Remember that I need you – all of you, mental scars included – and that we are going to do our best to fix each other._

_‘We are going to be broken together, Dean, but we’re also going to be happy together. I need you to let us be,_

_‘From Castiel’_

He lets his writing hand drop, blinking at the cramped, slanted hand-writing now covering the inside of the card. He doesn’t know where any of that came from, but he finds himself meaning every word of it. He tucks the card into the pocket of his trench-coat and makes toward the car, sliding into the backseat. 

“What took you so long?” Dean asks, and Castiel frowns in reply. Dean frowns back, but then shrugs and starts up the engine. “Where to now?”

“Um, there’s a rest stop about half an hour up the road that has a nice view?” Sam says uncertainly, looking up from his book of road-maps.

“Well I’m not gonna be a party-pooper,” Dean replies, turning out of the car-park in the direction Sam gestures. “Plus we’ve got pie and beer and I’m hungry, so the rest stop it is.” 

“Happy birthday!” Sam says brightly, which makes Dean scowl and turn up the radio. 

It’s quiet as they drive, the only noise being the music and the occasional light remark from Sam or Dean. Castiel remains quiet, mainly because he has nothing to say. Or, more truthfully, he has too much to say, except none of it is appropriate for now. There is no end of things Castiel could say; to Dean, about Dean, about his own situation – which Dean seems to be blatantly ignoring – but as always, he doesn’t, because it’s not the right time. It’s never the right time. Plus, it _is_ Dean’s birthday, and he doesn’t want to make it unnecessarily heavy for any of them. 

As he wrote in the card for Dean – which ended up being more of a letter – he just wants them to be happy. 

***

Forty-five minutes later they are seated at a picnic-bench, separated from the steep incline of the cliff next to them by only a row of wooden posts. The Impala is parked about twenty feet back, and the manufactured dirt clearing it sits on is the only other sign that this area was meant for humans. 

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Sam says, walking over with a six-pack of beer-bottles and the box of pies in his hand. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean replies gruffly, but smiles and takes a bottle anyway. 

Sam lets out an amused huff and smiles back, sliding into the seat opposite Dean and Castiel, his back facing the cliff. “Should we sing ‘happy birthday’ or…?” 

“No,” Dean stretches out the word. “That’ll be fine, Sammy.”

“Pie?” he holds out the container, and Dean grabs one out before pushing it back toward Sam, who follows suit.

Castiel knows the reason Dean didn’t offer him any food was because he always turns it down, and he feels rude asking – because it’s _Dean’s_ day – but it’s gotten to a point that he may have to. “May I?” he asks, tilting his head toward the box.

Dean looks taken aback, “Uh, yeah, help yourself. I didn’t think… you don’t usually want food.” 

Castiel looks away. “I’m… _hungry_.”

“You’re… Cas, are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, Dean, I just need to eat. It was going to happen eventually.”

Dean swallows and tightly purses his lips. “How long?” he asks, looking down at the table in front of his, his pie and beer forgotten.

“What?”

“How long have you got left?” he glances up at Castiel, but then his eyes flicker away again.

“Just over a month. Thirty-three days.” Castiel doesn’t mean to be keeping track, but it’s difficult not to. He has accepted it, but there’s a difference between acceptance and forgetting.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean says quietly. “What’re we going to do?”

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything. _You_ are going to accept that there’s nothing that can be done except be here for me.”

Dean looks up and meets his eyes, his brow creased. Castiel stares back, and Sam coughs and says he “needs to go do something over there,” promptly standing up and leaving them alone. 

“How are you okay with what’s being done to you?” Dean asks. It was only a matter of time before Dean stopped outwardly ignoring it, because Castiel knows for a fact that he has by no stretch of the imagination let it go, and he probably never will.

“I’m not okay with it.” Castiel tilts his head. “But there is nothing I can do, and so I’ve reached a state of acceptance. I…” he thinks for a moment. “I’m happy.”

“You should be _pissed_ ,” Dean says sharply, but Castiel knows his anger is more directed at their unfortunate circumstances than him. 

Instead of replying, Castiel pulls out the birthday card he wrote for Dean, sliding it across the table to him. 

“Cas, it’s not the time!” Dean snaps.

“Read it,” he replies firmly, and there must be something in his voice, because Dean doesn’t argue. 

He watches as Dean’s eyes slide over the page, first fast and angry, but then gradually he slows down and his features loosen. Then his eyes widen and his head snaps up. “What’s this?” he croaks, pointing to the top of the second page, but not moving it so Castiel can see what he’s gesturing to.

“What?” Castiel asks.

“ _I need you to let us be happy together_ ,” Dean reads, not really looking down at the page. “What the hell, Cas?”

When read aloud, Castiel can hear the second implication that could be behind those words. He should have picked it up earlier. Or maybe some part of him _did_ pick it up earlier, but chose to ignore it because he meant it both ways. Maybe there was a part of him asking Dean to let them be _together_. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry Dean, I didn’t realise, I –”

Dean shakes his head, cutting him off. “’S’okay, Cas. You didn’t mean it, like,” he waves his hands in a gesture that is probably supposed to mean something along the lines of ‘you didn’t mean you wanted us to be together.’

“No,” Castiel says. “I didn’t mean it like that.” _Except maybe he did_.

Dean licks his lips, but then shuffles and looks away. “Be careful with your words, Cas. I don’t mind when you write things like that because I know you don’t mean ‘em, but you don’t want other people to get the wrong idea.”

“Who else would I be telling to be happy with me?” Castiel frowns. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Hypothetically.”

“I don’t know anyone apart from you, Sam and Bobby, and you and I share a much stronger bond.”

“Stop whining,” Dean says with another half-hearted eye-roll. Castiel glares at Dean, which makes him grin, but then something seems to occur to him and his expression sobers.

“Dean?”

He shakes his head. “It’s funny,” he says, but his tone says that whatever it is, it’s the polar opposite of _funny_.

“What is?”

“I’m thirty now,” he says. “It’s just…” he trails off. “I never planned to live to thirty, you know? Like I didn’t even think it was a possibility. This life…” he shakes his head. “You can’t afford to make long-term plans. Even when I was growing up, I always thought I’d be dead by twenty-eight, and that’d be if I was lucky. Hell, I had no _intention_ of living this long. I went through times where I was just wishing some son of a bitch would get me before I got them.” He lets out a humourless chuckle. “It kind of sucks growing up always knowing that it’s only a matter of years or months or maybe even _days_ until you die. My whole childhood a part of me was always waiting for the one day dad didn’t walk back through that door and instead it was some monster covered in his blood, and then it’d get me and Sammy and…” Dean runs a hand over his face, and he looks more tired than Castiel has ever seen him. “You don’t want to be hearing my crap, Cas.”

“I don’t mind,” he replies. “Really.” 

“I just don’t know anymore,” Dean says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I want to be happy, and I am happy a lot of the time, but there’s still that part of me that can’t believe any of this is actually real, and that because things are good they’re gonna come tumbling down any minute, like they always do. Sam’s good, you say you’re good, and I’ll take that, and most of the time _I’m_ good. I’ve never been this happy before and it’s goddamn terrifying, Cas. I shouldn’t be happy, because you’re falling, and I should be angrier than I am and trying to find a way to fix it instead of sitting in the middle of fucking Ohio eating pie and drinking beer.” 

He slams his hand down on the table, but Castiel doesn’t react, letting Dean vent his anger. “ _Why_ do you make me happy, Cas? I’ve had more fun with you these past few months then I’ve had with Sam in years, and goddamnit, I shouldn’t even be thinking that because he’s my brother and you’ve got a fucking stick up your ass half the time,” he gestures offhandedly at Castiel, “but you make me a different sort of happy then he ever has. Don’t get me wrong, I love Sammy but –” he clamps his mouth shut and runs a hand over his face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Cas,” he finishes quietly.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Castiel says, and he isn’t lying to make Dean feel better, he actually means it. “You’re human.”

“And you’re not! Except soon you will be and there isn’t anything I can do about it.”

“Dean, listen to me!” Castiel bellows, not particularly angry, just needing Dean to _listen_. “Stop it, okay? Stop building up this idea in your mind that it’s your job to fix everything, because it isn’t and never has been. I understand that you have problems, and you’re hurting in ways that I couldn’t ever understand, but if you want it to stop then you need to stop being pathetic and accept things for what they are.”

“What am I supposed to be accepting, Cas? That you’re falling because of me? Because I accepted that long ago.”

“Did you?” Castiel asks, letting his voice drop to barely more than a whisper, but filling the words with enough ire that is has more effect than shouting ever would. 

“I know what I’ve done, _Castiel_ ,” Dean says, and the use of his full name makes Castiel angry. Dean doesn’t call him Castiel. Sam doesn’t call him Castiel. No-one who he cares about and who replicates the feeling calls him Castiel. It hurts him, and it makes him angry, but more than anything, it makes him worried about Dean. 

“Then please inform me, _Dean_ , because I don’t.”

“I fucking ruined your life, that’s what I’ve done, except I’m too fucking selfish to do anything about it because I need you here with me and if you’re an angel you’ll leave me like everyone else _always_ does,” Dean says, jabbing a finger angrily at Castiel. 

“Hypothetically speaking, if there were a way to make me an angel again, which there isn’t because this is _God’s_ work, then I would never leave you!”

“Yes you would because everyone always does!” Dean shouts. “Mom’s dead, dad left me and then before I got a chance to tell him I loved him he died for me, then every woman I’ve ever cared about enough to want to stay with dumped my sorry ass, Sammy was close to choosing Ruby over me, because that’s what it would have come down to, and at one point or another, everyone I care about leaves me because I fail them all! I fail every goddamn thing I care about, and then they all leave me because I’m a fucking failure, Cas. I’ve screwed up every relationship I’ve ever had and I always will. Don’t give me that crap, because I know that one day you’ll realise how fucked up I am and then you’ll turn tail and run like you should have the minute you saw me!”

“Well I’m sorry Dean, but you’re going to have to get used to me, because I’m not going anywhere any time soon,” Castiel replies, barely able to keep the venom out of his voice.

“ _Don’t fucking give me that crap!_ ” Dean says sharply. 

Castiel grabs Dean’s wrist and brings up his arm so they can both see his right hand, and Dean tries to pull away, but Castiel tightens his grip and doesn’t let him. “Do you see this?” he snarls, gesturing his head toward the promise ring. “This is my promise to you that I’m not going to be like everyone else. I’m _different_ to them. I can’t make you believe me, so just take my word for it that I’m not going to leave you, because doing so would hurt me even more than it’d hurt you. That’s why I’m falling in the first place, Dean, because I _couldn’t leave you_.”  

Something changes in Dean’s eyes, and he looks like he’s trying hard to still be angry, but failing dismally. “Please don’t go changing your mind on me, Cas,” he says quietly, meeting his eyes. 

Castiel tilts his head to the side and stares back at Dean. “Understand that when I say I won’t, I mean it,” he says.

Dean pulls his hand away – this time Castiel lets him – and runs it over his face. “Happy birthday, Dean,” Castiel says, sending him a small smile which Dean returns, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Thanks Cas. For everything. I –” he chokes, but Castiel nods, because he knows. Dean was either going to say _I’m sorry_ or _I need you_ or, a tiny, foolish part of Castiel hopes, _I love you_.

“Me too,” he replies, because however the sentence was going to end, he does too. “Me too, Dean,” and then Dean turns away and pokes at his pie with his plastic fork and takes the occasional swig from his beer and, by the looks of it subconsciously, twirls his promise ring around his finger. The rest of the day passes quietly, but Castiel can’t look at Dean the same, because Dean’s confession that everyone always leaves him is ringing around inside his head, and it hurts him more than words can express because he can see that despite what he said, Dean believes Castiel will leave him too. 


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

Cas it sitting watching TV when suddenly he looks up and says, “Dean, I want to go on a date.”

Dean freezes because he did not just hear what he thought he heard. Dean _doesn’t_ swing that way, goddamnit. “ _What_?” he chokes out, because maybe Cas said something else – something that wasn’t really fucking _gay_.

“I said I want to go on a date.”

“Cas, I don’t… I’m not gonna date you, man.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “I didn’t mean with _you_ , Dean.”

He blinks. “Oh.” And he isn’t disappointed because that’d mean he’s harbouring some _big gay crush_ on Castiel, which he isn’t because, for one, that’d be messed up, and for another, emphasis on the word _gay_ in that sentence, which is something Dean is not.

“I meant more in general,” Cas continues. “I’ve been researching –”

“What’re you _watching_ ,” Dean cuts in, because for Cas to have suddenly developed a desire to date – not have sex, fucking _date_ – it’s gotta be a girl-show. 

“Gilmore Girls,” he says, eyes moving back to the television, and then, “There’s a character named Dean in it, but in my opinion he bears more of a striking resemblance to Sam than you.”

“Yeah, okay Hannah Montana,” Dean says, laying his newspaper down on the table. “You do know that people who have this life don’t _date_ , right? We don’t do attachments. One night stands are a hunter’s best friend.”

“I am aware,” Castiel says flatly, “but I am also aware that your lifestyle isn’t necessarily the paradigm.” 

“But since when… last time I checked, women terrified you,” Dean points outs. “Remember Misty?” A.k.a. the New-York bartender who Cas nearly ended up smiting because she was coming on too strong. 

“I didn’t like her manner of approach, or the way she shielded her personality.”

“We’re not even in one place long enough to organise a date with someone,” Dean argues, just because the whole thing is even more impractical than buying a yacht when you live in the middle of Texas. He doesn’t have anything against Cas dating, but the scenario is just really fucking preposterous. 

“Not really,” he frowns. “This television show seems to work around the idea that you meet someone and then ask them for a second meeting soon after, wherein you learn more about them. The ‘trivial’ things as you put it.” 

“Yeah, but… Jesus, Cas, you’re not going on a date.”                              

“You’re not my parent, Dean. I’m fully able to make my own decisions; I was just hoping that you would help me so I could avoid making a fool of myself.”

When he puts it that way, Dean can see he has a point. He can picture Cas going up to some random girl in the street and proclaiming that they’re going on a date because he’s an Angel of the Lord and he says so. Yeah, so maybe Cas needs his help. “Fine,” he says after a beat. “Fine, I’ll help you find a date, but you have to do what I say, alright?” 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, and then goes back to watching his TV show, probably so he can ‘research’ or some crap. 

Dean ignores the itch in the back of his head telling him that, no, Cas can’t go on a date because Cas is _his,_ because Cas isn’t _his_ , not like that anyway. Cas has a right to hook up with whoever the fuck he wants to, and Dean doesn’t mind. He _doesn’t_ mind, except, goddamn it, he does, but he’s going to shove that thought into the sector of his brain reserved for things he’s in denial about. Said sector is becoming fuller and fuller and eventually it’s gonna burst, but for now, the walls remain intact, and so he’s going to help Cas find a date and not mind one single bit about it. 

He _doesn’t_ mind.                                                                               

***

“You know, people could be dying somewhere because we’re too busy trying to find you a goddamn date,” Dean grumbles as him and Cas sit down at a table outside a café, complete with one of those stupid umbrellas to block out the sun and a row of potted hydrangeas or poesy’s or god-know-what-kind of flowers separating them from the footpath. 

“I’m sure people will be fine,” Cas says, his eyes scanning the other café patrons. 

“What if the apocalypse starts while we’re on hiatus?” Dean asks pointedly, raising an eyebrow at Cas, who then turns and gives him a condescending look.

“I don’t think anyone else would be _capable_ of starting the apocalypse besides you and Sam, so we have nothing to worry about.” 

“Hey, I resent that,” Dean says, but Cas just gives him another narrow-eyed Dean-you’re-such-an-idiot-it-physically-pains-me look and goes back to checking people out. Dean’s glad that Cas changed out of his classic suit and trench-coat (because it needed to be washed) in favour of the white dress-shirt Sam bought him for Christmas and a blue sweater – also from Sam – because otherwise he’d very easily give off stalker-vibes. Sam had come home with the sweater and a few pairs of pants for Cas yesterday after Dean had texted him saying that Cas wanted Dean to find him a date. Sam had said that the blue would “bring out Cas’ eyes,” which it sure as fuck does, and Dean hates it because he can see people _noticing_ and people aren’t allowed to notice Cas’ eyes.

But he doesn’t mind.

Because he’s an awesome best friend who is going to find Cas a date if it’s the last thing he does – as lame as dating _is_ – he gestures surreptitiously to a woman a few tables down. “Her,” Dean says quietly. “She’s here by herself and isn’t waiting for anyone.”

Cas frowns. “How can you tell?”

“Dude, you learn to pick these things up. The last thing you want is to go hitting on a chick that’s already waiting for someone.” If Dean hadn’t been raised a hunter, and learnt to fist-fight from the age of about five, then he’d have scored his fair share of black-eyes that way. Over time he’s learnt to read the nuances in people’s body language, which he supposes makes him pretty awesome. 

“What do I do?” Cas asks, his brow furrowing further.

“First of all, stop frowning so much.” In trying to _not frown_ , Cas’ frown deepens in concentration, making Dean let out an exasperated huff. “Okay, in your TV show,” Dean can’t believe he’s going here, “what do the people do when they’re asking someone on a date?” 

“It varied.”

“Yeah but generally. Like, _body language_.”

Cas thinks for a moment. “They would smile.”

“And you hit the nail on the head,” Dean says. “Don’t do any of that creepy fake-smiling that you do either.” Dean remembers Christmas, when they were trying to take the photo (which totally isn’t still folded in half and tucked into his wallet), and Cas first attempt at a ‘smile’ hadn’t looked dissimilar to a snarling vampire, minus the pointy teeth.  

Cas looks over at him and stares for a moment; long enough to make Dean shift uncomfortably, because he’s trying really, really hard not to meet his eyes, which are made even brighter by the blue sweater. Blue is really Cas’ colour, and Dean has to mentally slap himself for even _thinking_ that, because son of a bitch, it was gay.

And then Cas smiles, that genuine, tiny quirk at the corners of his mouth. That smile where his face barely moves but his eyes are suddenly burning ten times brighter, and the corners of his eyes crinkle and the world seems to stop moving and speed up all at the same time. That smile that Dean associates with long car-trips devoid of weight, him and Sam singing along to the radio and Cas quietly sitting in the back seat, just watching; with quiet moments just before they all retire for the night, where Cas will sit up and look over at him from the other side of the motel room and whisper ‘goodnight’ before laying back down and going to sleep, leaving Dean to spend all night tossing and turning, wracked by dreams of fire and Hell and the unchanging blue; with the stolen touches they sometimes share, an accidental brush of hands or a palm lingering on a shoulder for slightly too long, and the not-so-accidental ones; a morning by the side of the road, noses red from the cold and hands clasped together, discussing the trivialities of humanity; late at night in New York City, clinging together after making each other a promise; Dean wrapped in strong blue wings, feathers ticking his neck and Cas’ body warm against his, watching the stars and making the most of the moments they have together. 

Cas looks away, leaving Dean with a heavy, sinking feeling in his abdomen, and the smile doesn’t fade, but it seems more manufactured now. Or maybe it’s just Dean’s imagination. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, his voice all scratchy and low and _goddamnit_ it makes Dean’s gut do the weird, jittery thing that he isn’t going to name, and then gets up and walks over to the woman, who when Dean thinks about it, isn’t even that pretty. Her eyes are too close together and her nose is small and her lips are thin and fuck, who’s he kidding, he’d do her given the chance. Dean hates her, and he doesn’t know why because he’s never so much as heard her voice, but he _hates_ her. His instincts are telling him that she’s not good news. 

Dean can’t hear what is being said, but Cas seems to ask if he can sit down, and then he pulls out the chair opposite her. His lips form the word _Cas_ and Dean freezes because that’s _his_ name for Castiel, and no one else has a right to use it, especially not some random nobody in a fucking café. The woman extends her hand and Cas does the same, and their hand-shake lasts for longer than it should, which Dean decides to just put down to the fact that Cas doesn’t know how shake hands properly (which he _does_ , but fuck, what’s one more thing to be in denial about? Not that he’s in denial about anything.) 

He asks something, and she shrugs and smiles, and then lets out a laugh, which carries over to Dean’s table and makes him feel cold. This was a shit idea. Cas says something else, and she smiles at him and reaches over to hit him lightly on the arm, a gesture which Cas apparently recognises as being flirtatious (Dean’s surprised, but he guesses Gilmore Girls is good for something) because he doesn’t try to blow her up or stab her. Dean feels a spike of anger, and something else which he is going to refuse to name, because he has no reason to be jealous.

Cas isn’t _his_ in that way. 

He sees the woman reach into her purse and pull out a piece of paper and a pen and, nope, that’s it. Before Dean can let his brain catch up to his fuck-I-don’t-like-her instinct, he’s walking over there. “Hey Cas,” he croaks, forcing a smile.

“Dean,” Cas replies, and then glances over to the woman, and Dean is overcome with another wave of hatred for her, which he knows is completely irrational but fuck everything. “Kate, this is my friend, Dean,” he continues, sending Dean a confused look.

“Hi,” Dean says coldly, barely even sparing her a glance. “Cas, we need to leave.”

“Is there a problem?” Cas frowns.

“Sam just texted me. He needs some help with some research. A case came up.” He’s gonna have to give Sam a heads up so he can invent some fake question that is super urgent and needs to be answered _now_. He better play along with Dean because otherwise not only is Dean fucked, but Sam’s going to wake up with the sleeves cut off of all his shirts and itching-powder in his underwear. 

“A case?” Kate asks. “Are you guy’s college students or something?” 

“FBI actually,” Dean lies, sending her a cold smile. 

She stiffens up and sends Cas a glance that is one part respect and three parts I-want-to-get-into-your-pants-even-more-now-because-you’re-a-sexy-government-agent. There are two types of girls, as Dean has come to learn after many years of being a not-fed; there are the ones who can’t look you in the eye once they see your (fake) badge and the ones who suddenly think you’re the hottest piece of action on the planet. Usually, Dean loves the second kind, but he doesn’t like Kate in the least. 

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, grabbing the back of his sweater and pulling him up, which earns his a stony glare. 

“Wait, you didn’t get my number,” Kate calls, scribbling numbers frantically down, but Dean is already pulling Cas away. He doesn’t try to fight, but Dean can feel that he isn’t happy. 

“What was that?” Cas asks angrily when they’re out of her hearing range. 

“Sam needs us,” Dean replies flatly as he slides into the Impala.

“We’re not working a case.”

“Like I said, one came up,” Dean doesn’t meet Cas’ eyes, both because he’s angry and because then Cas will see that he’s lying. He’s gonna need to make Cas wait in the car for a few minutes so he can clear stuff up with Sam. That or pray to God that he _did_ suddenly come across a case and was about to ring them.

Dean isn’t jealous of Kate or whatever the fuck her name is; he just doesn’t think Cas should date her. He’ll find him a girl who isn’t _Kate_. He doesn’t look over at Cas, and doesn’t so much as turn up the radio, but he’s too riled up to find it awkward.

Cas’ phone beeps and Dean looks up to see him staring at Dean. “What?” Dean mutters.

“Dean were you…” he frowns. “Were you _jealous_?” 

Dean nearly crashes the car. “Why the fuck would I be jealous?” he asks, tightening his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. 

“I don’t know,” Dean can feel Cas contemplating him. “But I just texted Sam and he doesn’t have a case for us.”

Crap. “I didn’t like Kate,” Dean says. “She was dumb and blonde and not even that pretty.”

Dean spares a glance over at Cas, but then looks away again because he doesn’t like the way he’s looking at him. “Kate had a PHD, and by human standards, she was very beautiful.”

“By _human_ _standards_?” Dean asks, because it’s easier to latch onto that than find a way to reply that doesn’t make him sound pathetic and jealous. Pathetic he may be, but he isn’t jealous because there’s no reason to be. “So is that it, you’re too good for humans because you’re as old as dirt and a semi-angel?”

“That’s not…” he can hear the confusion in Cas’ voice. “Dean, humans were made in our image.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have wings and halo’s and ten fucking heads.”

“I don’t understand why you’re angry.”

“You wouldn’t,” Dean snarls. So maybe he’s being a but unfair towards Cas, considering _he_ doesn’t even know why he’s angry, but that’s not the point.

“I find humans perfectly attractive,” he says, and it’s probably Dean’s imagination, but he looks pointedly over at him when he says that. 

“Fuck off, Cas,” Dean replies sharply, because it’s just easier. 

He makes a note-to-self that cafés are not good places to find dates for pathetic semi-angels who can’t develop their own relationships. Maybe he overreacted, and maybe he doesn’t want Cas dating people just because he’s selfish, but he is also not going to think either of those things because they go against the denial-rule. He _doesn’t_ fucking mind if Cas flirts with people, because he _isn’t_ in love with him or anything stupid. 

Goddamnit his life is messed up. 

***

“Internet dating,” Dean says, sitting down opposite Cas at the motel dining-table and pulling open his laptop lid. 

For one, Cas can’t intimidate people so much online and also, this way Dean doesn’t have to see another Kate or Misty feel him up. Not that he minds if they do. 

“How do you go on dates over the internet?” Cas frowns. 

“You don’t actually go on dates,” Dean explains as he starts up the computer. “You find people you _want_ to date and then organise to meet up with them.”

“How do I know whether I want to date them or not?”

“You look at their profile and start sending them messages,” Dean says, opening up an internet window and typing in the address of a website he’s seen advertised. “Okay, here we go,” he says. “Name, Castiel…” he pauses. “D’you have a last name?” Cas has always just been _Castiel_ or _Cas_ , he’s never had a surname. 

“No, angels don’t have anything beyond their first name and garrison number.”

“What’s your garrison number?” Maybe they can use that as his surname, or a variation of it at least.

“Three.”

“Your name in Heaven is _Castiel Three_?”

“My _name_ isn’t Castiel Three,” he replies dryly, glaring at Dean, who to be honest did know that, he just wanted to annoy Cas. “My name is Castiel and I was in the third garrison. Angels are called only by their first name.”

“Right, yeah, okay,” Dean says looking back down at his computer screen. “But a surname. We need to get you a surname so we can sign you up for the website.” Something occurs to Dean and he grins, “How about Hasselhoff?”

Cas just gives him a blank look in return. “ _No_ , okay, not Hasselhoff then. Choose a last name or you’re being Castiel Hasselhoff.”

Cas tilts his head and Dean can see him thinking. “Winchester,” he says after a moment. 

“What?” Dean asks dumbly. 

“Winchester,” Castiel repeats, and then smiles. “I’d like to be a Winchester.”

“Cas you can’t… you can’t just _be_ a Winchester.” He should have seen this coming. _Jesus, Cas_. 

“Why not? You and Sam are my family.” 

“Because you just _can’t_ ,” Cas is Dean’s family, but he doesn’t want to give him his last name for fucks sake. He and Sam are the only Winchesters left, and he needs to honour that. He can imagine his dad’s reaction if he found out that they’d christened their angel a Winchester. “If you don’t choose something that’s _not_ Winchester in the next minute you can be Castiel Smith or Brown or White or Collins or something boring.” 

“I don’t see why I can’t be Winchester,” Cas argues. “You and Sam are like brothers to me.”

Dean sighs. “ _Fine_ you can be Castiel Winchester on the fucking website. Just don’t tell Sam.” He can’t be bothered arguing; Cas is like a child in that sometimes it’s just best to let him get what he wants. 

“Why can’t I tell Sam?”

“Because he’ll get the thought in his stupid head that we’re married or something,” because Sam seems to be under the constant impression that him and Cas are having some secret affair behind his back. 

“We’re not married.”

“Yeah thanks, Sherlock,” he deadpans. Dean groans and runs a hand over his face. “Okay, interests and likes.”

“I don’t have any interests or likes.”

“Everybody has interests, Cas,” he says exasperatedly. 

Cas thinks for a moment. “I like to read.”

“Okay, reading,” he types that in the box. “What else?” 

“I don’t know. Is it important to put these things down?”

“ _Yes_ because that’s how you know if you have things in common with people.” Jesus fuck, this is harder than he thought it would be. 

“What would you put if it were you?”

“Classic cars, rock music, Metallica, Led Zeppelin, the colour blue, family, um, being a Good Samaritan and saving the world a shit load of times,” Dean shrugs loosely. “ _I don’t know_.” 

“My favourite colour’s green,” Cas says, and Dean adds that.

“Okay, keep going.”

“I like poetry.”

Dean has to stop to make sure he heard that right. “ _Poetry_?” 

“I appreciate the art of words,” Cas says defensively 

“ _Poetry_?” he asks again. 

“Yes, Dean, poetry,” 

“Seriously, Cas?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says firmly, and Dean grins, because he can use this to tease Cas _forever_.

“Girly poetry?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Cas glares and looks away, and Dean expects him to reply with a sharp _no_ but then he starts talking and Dean freezes.

“Drifting, trembling,  
aching voice –  
alone across the universe  
echoless,” he recites, his voice is rhythmical and even, and hell, Dean usually hates poetry unless it’s in the form of rock music, but Cas has a really nice voice and Dean can actually _feel_ the words. 

“Foreboding remembrance –  
wounded hearts’ pain –  
outburst of anguished  
souls rent in twain.”

He means to laugh and tell Cas to stop being a girl and tease him about being Shakespeare or something, but then Cas meets his eyes and the words die in his throat. 

“Driven by obsessions,  
dragged to the ground –  
brought into the light:  
freed, unbound. 

“Blazing sun  
that ends dark hours –  
joyous bliss  
of loving powers. 

“Up from the deep,  
from the central fire,  
in cosmic union  
stars rise higher. 

“Loving souls  
with radiant eyes –  
once deathly ill,  
now worthy and wise. 

“Love toward all,  
oneness in One –  
steadfast and pure,  
for his sake alone.” 

_It’s a poem_ , Dean keeps telling himself, _you don’t like poems_ , and he doesn’t like poems, except there’s something about Cas that makes it not-so-lame. But that’s it, there’s always something about Cas that makes Dean think things or feel things he’d rather not explain. Cas doesn’t look away and the rhythm of his voice is still pounding against the inside of Dean’s head, the rising and falling of the words, crafted into flowing verses by Cas’ rough voice. He’s having trouble breathing evenly, because Cas wasn’t just _saying_ the words, he was saying the words to _Dean_. There is no doubt in the goddamn universe that they were for Dean, and he isn’t sure how to feel about that. 

He’s going to have to go do some manly stuff soon – like fix his car and eat a cheeseburger and get really, really drunk – because Castiel (who, a tiny particle of thought that’s broken out of the cage where he shoves all the uncomfortable thoughts says, is the one thing that breaks his unwavering heterosexuality) just recited poetry for him. If that’s not the gayest thing Dean’s ever been part of then he doesn’t know what is. If Cas doesn’t stop with this stuff soon then he’s going to have to start curling his eyelashes and wearing scarves and talking with a lisp.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, and he realises that he’s said his name several times already. 

“Yeah, what?” Dean says, shoving the uncomfortable thoughts away. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he replies, shifting in his chair and refusing to meet Cas’ eyes. “I’m fine.” 

Cas narrows his eyes but doesn’t press further. Dean clears his throat and looks back down at his computer, and suddenly this whole internet dating thing seems like a crap idea as well. “Okay, your bio,” Dean says and then starts to type. “ _My name is Castiel Winchester, I’m…_ how old is your vessel Cas?” 

Castiel looks down at himself. “He was thirty-three when I took host in him, but he would have turned thirty-four in that time if not for my grace keeping him from aging, but now that my grace is dwindling I will begin to age. I would say I’m thirty-three.”

“Thirty-three it is then,” Dean says. “ _My name is Castiel Winchester, I’m 33 years old, my favourite colour is green and I enjoy reading and poetry_.” He hits the full-stop button with more force than is necessary. “Okay, how does that sound?”

“I don’t know,” Cas frowns. 

Dean reads over the sentence there. “Nah, there’s still not enough. Music’s always a good place to start. I know you find music boring or whatever, but is there _nothing_ you like?”

Cas pauses. “Bob Dylan. I like Bob Dylan.”

Dean swallows, because he doesn’t need to ask where that came from. ‘ _Knocking on Heaven’s Door. Bob Dylan. Real music.’  ‘Just follow the music.’ His hands landing on Cas’ arms. ‘Just let your body loosen.’ Cas’ hands finding his shoulder. Cas’ hand sliding around to rest on the small of his back. The indescribable scent of Cas, palpable even over the perfumes and sweat emitted by the crowd. Their heads nestling together. Becoming lost to the music and each other. That feeling… that feeling Dean gets around Cas. Drowning. Always drowning. Trying to swim but being pulled back under. Drowning_.

Dean blinks forcefully and pushes the memories down. “ _My favourite song is Knocking on Heaven’s Door by Bob Dylan_ ,” he types. “Now what’re you looking for in a partner?” he asks, reading off of the list of ‘suggested points’ at the side of the screen.

“I’m not…” he frowns. “I just want to go on a date. I’m not speaking about a long-term commitment as of now.”

“Just answer the question,” Dean sighs. He should have gotten Sam to do this. He has more patience. 

“A person who understands me,” Cas says, tilting his head. “And who I understand. Someone that is willing to accept me and is brave and loyal and whom I _love_.” Dean types as Cas talks, and blatantly ignores the voice in the back of his head screaming at him to actually _look_ at what Cas is saying. “Someone who is there for me and is willing to take the time to fix me, because I need fixing, but let’s me have my independence. Someone,” the corners of Cas’ mouth quirk up, “someone who needs me.”

Dean is pretty sure that his stomach is now located up somewhere around his throat, and he needs a drink, because his head is screaming things at him that he doesn’t want to think about or believe. He feels… _fuck_ he has no fucking idea how he feels because his emotions aren’t co-operating. A part of his brain wants him to stand up and punch Cas, and another part wants him to stand up and _kiss_ Cas and another part wants him to stand up and run away and never, ever come back. 

_Someone who needs me_ , Cas had said, and crap, no-one is that clueless. He _knew_ what he was saying. He knew! The fucking son of a bitch knew what he was insinuating and yet he still said it. And Dean wants that. He wants to be that person for Cas, and it fucking terrifies him. Dean slams the lid of the laptop shut and stands up so quickly he knocks the chair over. 

“Dean, are you okay?” 

He feels a fury rising up inside of him; heavy and burning and screaming to be felt, laced with the undeniable _fear_ and confusion and self-hatred, because it’s _wrong_. It’s wrong to even _think_ that about Cas. It’s Cas’ fault! _It’s all Cas’ fault._ “No, Castiel, I’m not,” he says as he grabs up his coat. “You can find your own fucking date and don’t think about talking to me for a long time, because I don’t want to see you. Cas, I… I _hate_ you,” and he puts so much venom into the words that a part of almost wants to apologise straight away, but he doesn’t.  

He walks out the door without another word, and he doesn’t need to turn around to see the hurt and confusion on Castiel’s face, hurt that is because of _him_. He doesn’t need to see that because then what he’s just done will register properly and he’ll… Jesus, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do ever again. 

Dean Winchester doesn’t cry, especially for dumbass ex-angels, and so he ignores the burn in his eyes and the heavy lump is his throat as he slides into the driver’s seat of the Impala, but the worn leather and familiar smell don’t bring him comfort. Instead, it seems cold and empty. As the engine starts up, so does the radio and a smooth voice drifts through the speakers.

 _‘A long black cloud is coming down_ ,’the words feel like a dagger being pushed slowly into his heart, ‘ _feels like I’m knocking on Heaven’s door.’_  Dean swiftly turns down the volume, but the pain doesn’t leave, and so he drives. He slams his foot down and he follows the road, trying not to think about what he just did and what he just said to Cas and what fear has made him become. 

Dean doesn’t know who he is anymore. He is lost, broken, _drowning_ and he just ruined any chance he might have had of getting better. Cas was the light at the end of his long, Hell-scarred tunnel, but now he’s snuffed out the light because he was too scared of how bright it might become. He’s shattered every inch of the happiness they’ve built up together, broken every one of their promises, cast all of their moments together out into the dark. 

On a whim, he rips off the promise ring and shoves it in his pocket, because it doesn’t mean anything now. 

Dean has never been this scared before; not when he was about to go to Hell, not when he woke in a grave, covered by six-feet of soil, not when he’s been about to die. All those times, he’s had some idea what’s going on, an inch of surety as to where he’d end up, but now he’s left floundering underwater, no clue which way is up, dark and cold and confused. He is terrified of what he’s allowed himself to become, and the things he feels. He’d been happy, but then when the full gravity of the situation had hit him, he’d told Castiel – the epicentre of Dean’s current state – that he _hates_ him. 

He doesn’t hate Cas; he hates what Cas has done to him. He hates the things Cas makes him feel. He hates, more than anything, himself. He hates that no matter what he does, the feeling he refuses to name won’t go away. He hates that he’s destroyed everything. 

Dean Winchester, for the first time in his life, is a coward. He let his fear win, overcome him, and now his world has been torn apart at the seams, and this time, there won’t be anyone left to _want_ to fix him. 

When it came down to it, Castiel was the only one left who he hadn’t broken beyond repair, and now, he too, is gone.

 _Drifting, trembling,_  
aching voice –  
alone across the universe  
echoless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem is "Untitled" by Eberhard Arnold


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

Seven days have passed. Dean hasn’t spoken to Castiel more than to ask him to pass him his rifle or to clarify a piece of information or to tell him to fuck off because he just _can’t_. It’s cold and empty, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t think he _can_ fix it. Dean is certain that if he could, Cas would have left, but there’s still Sam and the fact that he has nothing else outside of their grimy little bubble of a life. If not for Sam then _Dean_ would have left.

Yesterday Sam told him to stop feeling sorry for himself and fix whatever it was that he did, but Dean’s gonna keep feeling sorry for himself for as long as he goddamn wants to.

If he knew how to apologise he would, but he just _doesn’t_. He’s started to, several times, but the words have jammed up in his throat and, despite his best efforts, refused to come out. But maybe sorry won’t cut it this time. He fucked up; there is no denying he fucked up. He fucked up so much that Cas won’t even look at him, and that Sam has given up even trying to ask what happened. 

The atmosphere in their tiny, cramped motel room is heavy and awkward, but at least Dean can get out when they’re stopped somewhere. The worst times are when they’re driving, and he’s stuck in the car with Cas, who evidently hates Dean – the real kind of hate too, not ‘hate’ that was spawned from fear, like Dean’s – and Sam, who in trying desperately not to take sides is stuck not talking much to either of them. Dean thinks that him and Cas probably have conversations while he’s out, but he doesn’t know and if he’s honest he doesn’t really care. They both deserve a friend and since Dean failed them dismally, it’s only natural they’d grow closer; the whole ‘the enemy of my enemy is a friend’ concept at play.

Like a true Winchester, Dean’s been drowning himself in alcohol. He remembers while growing up he’d always told himself that he wouldn’t turn out like his dad, he wouldn’t drink away his problems and instead he’d face them head on like a man, instead of cowering away with bottles of beer and whiskey and his own self-pity. But like every long-term plan he has ever had, that went down the drain a long time ago, and so it’s another glass of Wild Turkey and another step closer to his problems becoming lost. It’s times like this he wishes he didn’t have such a high tolerance, because where most people would be a drooling mess on the floor right now, lost to the world and it’s goddamn darkness, he’s still virtually at the top of his game and the cogs in his head are only a little bit slower than usual, and the world’s still there with its crisp, vibrant clarity and crushing weight. 

Dean wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and all the common signs of a hangover, which probably should dissuade him from popping open another bottle before its even 10am, but the pain and the sharp, bitter tang of the alcohol make everything clearer. They make it more real, the way he stuffed up everything, the way he ran from feelings that he still doesn’t really understand, the way that he’s let things reach the point where even eye-contact is a no-go-zone, they keep him from sinking into the black depths of the waking world, and keep the shroud of fog from being pulled over his eyes. Or maybe they do the opposite and _help_ him sink, he doesn’t really know anymore. 

It’s Thursday, or maybe Friday, afternoon while he’s hanging in that limbo between sobriety and intoxication, when he can first put a name to the Cas-related-feelings. It hits him like a bolt of lightning, suddenly and without a warning, except at the same time being expected because the storm clouds and thunder have been there for an indeterminable about of time, fizzling his insides and outsides and leaving him a raw, blackened husk alive with electricity and nothing else. He’s sitting outside in his car, given up even using a glass and drinking the whiskey straight from the bottle, Led Zeppelin turned up to a deafening volume when it happens. He’s not even really thinking about Cas specifically, more just letting the music overcome him and contemplating the general worthlessness of his existence, but then _All Of My Love_ comes on, and maybe it’s something about the lyrics or maybe it’s just good timing but he _realises_ , and then he doesn’t know how it didn’t occur to him earlier. 

He _loves_ Cas.                                                                                                                                 

He loves Cas more than he’s ever loved anyone that isn’t family, and it’s a different kind of love than the one he feels for Sam or felt for his mom. It’s the kind of love people in stupid television shows and crappy novels talk about; the one where it hurts to look at the person, but it’s a good kind of hurt. It scares him so much, because he’s straight – he’s never even _thought_ about another man in a more-than-friends kind of way – but Cas… he seems to be the exception. Cas is always the goddamn exception for everything.

Maybe Cas has never been _just his friend_ and maybe it’s always been there, even before Cas started to fall, but they’ve both been too blind to see it. As of late it’s been becoming louder and brighter, Dean thinks, and yet he’s still been deaf and blind to everything. Or maybe he _has_ always known, but he just hasn’t liked it so he’s blatantly ignored it like he does with everything. 

There’s no point in denying anything anymore, because he’s got nothing to lose. He’s already shoved his honour and dignity out the window, so what’s his heterosexuality but another tick in the boxes? He doesn’t know when the thing with him and Cas started, just that it’s been there for a long time, in the form of an ocean crashing against his insides and stealing his air. There were an innumerable amount of moments where all it would have taken was for him to lean in that little bit closer or to replace that _I need you_ with an _I love you_.

But of course, he never would have done either of those things, because he’s far too proud and even more scared.

Dean remembers Cas saying to him once that there is a vast difference between realisation and acceptance, and he gets that now. Just because he’s realised what the _feelings_ are doesn’t mean he’s ready to accept them any time soon. To be quite honest he wouldn’t mind keeping them secret for the rest of his life, because again, there’s his pride and his stupid, overwhelming fear. 

So basically, Dean doesn’t know what to do anymore. He’s lost, both in the fact that he doesn’t know where to go from here and in that everything he’s ever believed about himself is coming tumbling down. He can pinpoint the exact moment that he broke their relationship (what relationship there ever may have been), and it starts with ‘I’ and ends in ‘hate you.’ 

Cas has always been there for him; right from the beginning all the way up until Dean tore everything apart. He’s done _so much_ for him, sacrificed _so much_ and Dean hasn’t done anything to repay him except blind himself to the scary non-platonic feelings and then when they seeped through the cracks have a goddamn tantrum which then lead into this stupid stalemate they’ve got going that may never end, because Dean doesn’t know how to make it end and it’s up to him to fix it, considering that Cas has tried and Dean’s turned him away. 

Cas saved Dean, and not just from Hell, but from himself. God, it sounds cheesy and like the closing line of a chick-flick, but up until he met Cas, Dean was lost, and he might not have ever been found, but then someone walked out blindly into the dark and started poking around until they found him, and dragged him back into the light. 

_Driven by obsessions,_  
dragged to the ground –  
brought into the light:  
freed, unbound. 

He doesn’t mean to remember any of the goddamn poem, but the words are seared onto the inside of his skull and they won’t go away. Maybe it’s because they hit so close to home. Dean had – in the most literal sense possible – sold his soul and condemned himself to Hell, but then the light – _Cas_ – had come and saved him. And then, less literally, there was the other Hell, the one of Dean’s own making, crafted from nothing but memories and insecurities and deep-seated issues that had never seen the light, and Castiel rescued him from there as well, and tried his very best to put him back together, and put up with Dean’s bullshit and stayed when no-one else would and told him what he needed to hear, even when it might not have been 100% true, and made him promises that seemed so much _truer_ than anything else Dean had ever heard, all of this while losing himself so that Dean may once again be whole. That doesn’t even begin to scrape the surface of what Cas has done for him, and Dean doubt he even _knows_ the full extent of it.

All this time – during the relaxed days where they wouldn’t do anything except kick back and watch stupid movies, during the nights, where they would secretly hold to each other, just because it felt right and it kept them from floating away – and Dean never realised. He never realised that that feeling in the pit of his stomach, blackness and blueness and crashing waves, was _love_.

The worst part though isn’t that he broke everything, but that he didn’t even realise what he had with Cas until it was gone, and now that it isn’t there, he sees it. And _fuck_ does he wish he’d seen it all earlier before he went and screwed the whole thing up. They could have built something that even slightly resembled _happiness_ , but now it’s too late, because Dean’s an idiot, except he still has no idea how to fix it and so he’s going to let the music and the whiskey lull him into the dark, and he’s going to stay there forever because this time no one’s coming to rescue him. 

Dean never expected love to feel so much like loneliness. 

* * *

Castiel can’t escape the irony of it being a Thursday when his wings finally disappear. 

It is not as if he hadn’t been expecting it, but it still comes as a shock and stops him still. That night with Dean, when he had shown him his wings and they had both been ridiculously happy and content to never leave each other’s sides until the world stopped turning altogether, had been the last time his wings had been whole. After that they had begun to deteriorate quickly, feathers falling out and muscles getting weaker, until they reached their final stage before they would fade from existence entirely. Castiel finds the symbolism in the fact that the day Dean decided he _hates_ Castiel was also the day his wings turned to bone amazing. Maybe it was the finality of those words, the sharp _I hate you, Castiel_ , which had made his wings give up, just as he finds himself gradually giving up.

Where his wings had once been beautiful and strong, dark blue feathers giving way to lighter blue and tawny brown, muscular and able to slice through the air with ease, they had then been nothing but skeletons. The bones were bleached white, held together by the last trickles of grace directed toward maintaining his appendages. Up until Dean had closed that door behind him, leaving Castiel with a turmoil of emotions he still hasn’t been able to sort through, there had been the smallest amount of flesh and feather left, but then they had faded and left nothing but skeleton behind. He still counts it lucky – despite the part of him that despises Dean for what he’s done, even though he knows he can justify his actions – that Dean never had to see them how they were before today, because it was horrible.

If he would have spread his wings, he would not have looked like an angel, but instead like some twisted monster or demon, crafted from bone and fear. There had been the faintest shadows between the cartilage, only a few shades darker than the rest of reality, which rippled and stretched when he moved, threatening to tear, but looking more like they were promising death, promising blackness and a final end to the beholder. He had looked – and felt – like an omen of death. 

And thus it brings him to now, just after midday on a Thursday in early February, more human than he has ever been before. A dominant part of him is gone, disappeared completely and he’ll never, ever get it back.

The full gravity of it hits him.

His wings are gone. His wings – a part of him that’s been with him, remaining virtually unchanged since the beginning of creation – are gone. He will never fly again, snapping open his wings and in the equivalent of a millisecond ripping through layers of time and space like paper, feeling the rush of wind and the tug of gravity, helping him along and forcing him down. He’ll never see them again, never touch them, never feel the ripple of muscles and pure _power_ as he spreads them wide. He doesn’t even realise that he’s crying until he tastes something wet and salty hit his bottom lip, and then he’s collapsing in on himself and struggling to stay upright.

He has never cried before. He’s never felt this much _raw emotion_ to need to cry. He sinks down onto his bed, his back to the door in case Sam returns early from his supply-run, and lets himself weep. He doesn’t wipe away his tears or stifle his sobs, because there’s no one around to hear or care. He absently notes that one of his hands his clawing at the air over his right shoulder, looking for something but finding nothing, because there is nothing and never will be again. 

For the first time since he began to fall, he lets himself remember Heaven, _really_ remember. He can picture himself, before humanity walked the face of the earth, still young and untainted by battle or duty, soaring through the clouds with his brothers, feeling not quite happy – because angel’s don’t feel _happy_ – but content and purposeful, knowing that he had a purpose to serve, one which he would happily die for or serve for all eternity. He remembers during the time surrounding Jesus, when humans were learning even more so than they are now, being ordered to interfere, and make sure that _that king_ was killed by that _peasant_ , and that _that brother_ killed the other, and that it was the correct people, the Chosen people, who witnessed events, shaping history and fate like it was clay, his wings a constant. He remembers thousands upon thousands of years of service and patrolling earth, watching endless people live and die, never showing himself, always waiting for further orders, but his wings still always _there_ , him taking advantage of them because after all, they were a part of him, and they would always be, just as he would always be, because service to Him was his only desire, and he would die a million times over before he would fall. 

And then there was the day everything changed, when their father came back and Castiel flew with more urgency than he had ever flown with before, because it was he who was being called, his wings thrumming with the same excitement and anticipation that coursed through the rest of his body. He remembers spreading his wings, almost numb with shock, ready to go and kill Sam and Dean Winchester, like a good little soldier, but then not being able to do it and being grabbed by his wings and pulled back to Heaven, the burn of that alone making him scream in agony. He remembers every time he flew for the Winchesters, and every time he used his wings to fight for them, vanquishing demons and batting them aside with limbs that he need not even think about, because they were him. He remembers Dean running his fingers through them and calling them beautiful, calling _him_ beautiful, and meaning it with more honesty than anything else Castiel has ever heard.

He remembers, and he weeps, because now those memories are dust in the wind, ragged blue feathers floating without a cause, meaningless. He shouts, he tips his head back and roars at the ceiling, at the sky beyond it and at every plane of reality that he will never again touch. He curls in on himself, for a moment imagining that his wings are wrapped around him, shielding him from harm and from the outside world, but there is nothing there and so he takes in the emptiness and he cries. 

He hears the door swing open, and out of the corner of his eye, through the haze of tears he sees a silhouette. Not Sam; wrong for Sam, the posture too slumped and the hair too short. Dean, he realises in a blur, which makes him want to stop crying, because Dean can’t see him like this, but against his better judgement the sobs get stronger because it’s _because of him_. He shouldn’t even be thinking that, because he knows how guilty Dean feels, and how much it’s been eating away at him, but he can’t help it because if not for Dean then he wouldn’t be like this. He wouldn’t need to mourn his wings. 

Dean’s eyes are wide, and he sways slightly on his feet, like he’s been drinking (which he probably has), and part of Castiel wants to stand up and hold him, because he knows he’d understand, and that he’d find a way to make things better, even just for a little while, but he can’t because they don’t do that anymore. Castiel isn’t even really sure what he did, but it must have been something huge because Dean made sure to react accordingly. 

Dean opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then takes a step backwards, staring at Castiel with a look on his face that could be horror quite as equally as it could be joy; Castiel is past being able to tell. He is so deeply consumed by his sorrow, which he knows no one else can ever understand, because they don’t know what it feels like to lose something that isn’t only _you_ but _more than you_ , that he probably wouldn’t be able to hear Dean even if he was talking.

Castiel reaches behind him again, the angle now more awkward because he is laying curled up in the centre of his bed in what is probably this most undignified position he has ever been in, clawing at the empty air. Dean gasps and the door slams shut, just like it did that other time, and Castiel remembers that he’s angry with Dean and that he hates him except he _doesn’t_ because he could never hate Dean. 

He doesn’t know what he feels at the moment beyond a loud sorrow which swallows him and overcomes all else; the anger toward Dean, the confusion and betrayal, the self-loathing of Dean-esque proportions and regret that he didn’t work out where he was going wrong before it became too much. None of it matters at the moment except his wings, which are gone, which deserved to be mourned with every part of him that he has left, because they were more him than anything that is left here. He is not his vessel, all skin and flesh and bone, with his high cheek-bones and his strikingly blue eyes. He is – he _was_ – an angel; power and light and _wings_ except now he is, for all intents and purposes, a human with residual, measly supples of angel grace which are barely good for anything. But now he has become his vessel, incongruous to his will. He has become all skin and flesh and bone, with high cheek-bones and strikingly blue eyes and not much else.  

As the saying goes, time will heal all scars, but Castiel can’t help feeling that this is one that will always hurt, because how can it _not_? He just lost his essence, because his wings were always his essence more so than his grace, and so now he is left empty of life and full of emotion and so, very, very _human_. 


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

Once again Dean remarks how very much love feels like loneliness, and that maybe they are the same thing, except one is simply lacking warmth and contentment. Maybe, he thinks, the two go hand in hand, because really, if love is so brilliant and nice then how can it last, because nothing nice ever lasts. Loneliness is what happens to the people who are left after the love has faded, or in his case never even had a chance to manifest before it was shot from existence. After all, one can’t be lonely if one doesn’t have anyone to miss, and why would you miss someone unless you love them and need them and crave them with every inch of your being.

Castiel’s wings are gone, and the revelation brings with it a whole new wave of guilt. It’s his fault. It’s his fault Cas is falling, and ultimately his fault that Cas was crying with a vigour that Dean’s never seen in anyone, let alone stoic, brave, emotionless Castiel. He had been so vulnerable-looking; so human, so emotional, so _mortal_ and it struck Dean anew that Cas will now die just like them rest of them. 

And as the days move forward, Dean finds himself doing a whole new kind of drowning, and this one isn’t anywhere near as pleasant as before. The oceans are rough and rip at him, and unlike before he doesn’t feel safe. The blue has turned to black and he can feel the anger of the waves as they pull him under, and he knows how much they hate him, how much they despise his every fibre, everything he is and ever has been. The tidal-wave crashed down maybe _months_ ago, and though he didn’t realise it, his head was above water until with a single sentence – a single, irrational, un-thought-out sentence – he got himself pulled under, and now he’s floundering beneath the surface of what was left behind. 

He still has nightmares, and they’re still joined by the blue, but now he finds himself running towards it only to be held back by massive wings, which pick him up and cast him back down to Hell because they realise that he wasn’t worth saving. 

He never thought he’d miss the way things were, being built on uncertainly and denied longing, but now he’d give anything to go back to that. Once again, Dean Winchester broke the world, but this time it’s much more contained; just him and Castiel and the moments that never will be.

***

It’s the 13th of February when everything changes.                                                     

They’re in Canby, Oregon, having caught scent of something stealing virgins, which is always an excellent sign that there’s nothing weird going on. It’s a Cherufe, they’ve worked out (by ‘they’ Dean means mostly Sam and Cas, he hasn’t been doing a whole lot of anything lately except drink and feel sorry for himself), a Chilean volcano monster that eats people; mostly virgins. Dean gave up asking a long time ago why a Chilean volcano monster with the virgin-munchies would be in Oregon because monster’s don’t make sense. It’s his job to kill them, not psychoanalyse them.

They’ve tracked it back to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, which apparently, back in the day, used to manufacture gunpowder, which still doesn’t explain why a goddamn volcano monster is living there, but they know where it is and that’s all that matters. Dean’s checking the trunk of the Impala to make sure they have their machetes (because as far as they can tell decapitation will work) are sharp and in place and loading the jugs of water, because they need to put out the Cherufe (it will literally be on fire) before they can get close enough to cut its head off. All in all, it’ll either end really well or in absolute disaster. 

“Dean,” Sam says, walking out of the house they’re squatting in (it’s closer to the warehouse than any motel would have been). 

“Sam.”

Sam looks like he wants to say something, but also doesn’t because he thinks it’ll offend Dean. It probably will offend Dean, but he hasn’t got any self-esteem left to loose. “Talk to me,” he says, closing the boot and leaning against it, gesturing with his head for Sam to come over. 

Sam sighs, the cold making his breath mist out. “Dean, to be frank, I’m really starting to worry about you.”

“I’m fine,” Dean replies as Sam leans down next to him, his weight causing the car to buckle beneath them. He _isn’t_ fine – he hasn’t been fine for nearly two weeks now, but then again he’s never fine. There’s always something tearing him apart, whether it be guilt, his general worthlessness or something to do with Castiel. This time it’s all of the above, but Sam doesn’t need to hear that. If anything, he already knows. 

“No, Dean, you’re not. I talked to Cas –”

“Well then you already know what I did!” Dean says, the anger that’s always just _there_ rising up. 

“No, I don’t,” Sam replies sharply, “because he wouldn’t tell me. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Dean, but whatever happened between you two, he’s just as messed up about it.”

“No wonder he’s messed up! I fucked _everything_ up Sammy, again, like I always do,” Dean gestures sharply to himself. 

“If you don’t tell me what happened I can’t help,” Sam says exasperatedly, trying to meet Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t let him, turning his head the other way. If he looks at Sam then he’ll end up telling him everything, from the fact that he’s been _in love_ with Cas for fuck-knows how long now to how he started off trying to do a nice thing for him and find him a date and then ended up freaking out and overreacting at the stupidest thing.  

“You wouldn’t be able to help,” he lets out a humourless huff. “No offense Sam, but this doesn’t concern you.”

“Well sorry, but it kind of does. You and Cas haven’t spoken in _two weeks_ Dean, which wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t stuck in a car with you all day and a room all night. We’re all supposed to be in this together, and we can’t do that while you’re too busy sulking and being a _jerk_ to apologise for whatever it is you did to screw up your and Cas’ relationship. I’m fine with whatever it was between you and Cas. I don’t care as long as you both stop acting like freaking children!” 

Dean glares at Sam and his stupid (but really fucking true) outburst. “There was never anything between me and Cas.”

Sam shakes his head and looks away. “I’m not blind, Dean! There was something between…” he trails off and his eyes widen. “Did you freak out because he told you?” his eyes are suddenly bright with that annoying glint they get when he finally understands something particularly confusing.

“Told me _what_?”

“That he’s in love with you, you idiot!”

“Cas isn’t in love with me,” Dean mumbles.

“Are you honestly that stupid, Dean?” Sam exclaims. “He _fell_ _from Heaven_ for you, he looks at you like you’re the world, he…” Sam stops and shakes his head. “Did you _really_ not know?”

“There isn’t anything _to_ know,” he pushes himself up off the hood of the car and walks around to the drivers-side door. “Now go get Castiel so we can go do our job.”

“Dean –”

“Sam, I’m serious, if you don’t let it drop I swear to God, I’ll break your nose,” Dean means to sound menacing, but even to his own ears his voice is choked and broken.

“Just try and get your head in the right place, okay?” Sam asks with a sigh. “I need you at the top of your game out there tonight. We can’t afford mistakes.” 

“The only thing left in the world I know how to do is my job, so please give me that.” 

Sam frowns at him but doesn’t press further. When he’s walked back through the front door Dean lets himself start to freak out. Cas – according to Sam, who is usually pretty spot-on with these things – is… God he doesn’t want to even think the words because a) they make him feel like a girl, b) they fill him with hope that is probably false and c) it just makes everything hurt even more because now Dean’s certain they could have been something more if he hadn’t messed it all up. 

It’s not like he didn’t already know, but hearing someone else say it makes it all that more _real_. It’s like that with everything though; he’ll know it’s there but he can’t actually acknowledge it until there are evident signs of it and it’s far into action. It was like that with Cas’ fall from grace (which, he reminds himself is still happening and still his fault).

It’s been two weeks, and Dean’s at the point where he isn’t even sure why they’re not talking. He knows but he doesn’t _know_. He guesses it’s because he’s too much of an ass to apologise or have a conversation with Cas when he tries to start one. He can see that Cas is angry, but nowhere near as much as Dean is, and if that’s not messed up and backwards then he doesn’t know what is. 

Cas… _fuck_ , Cas loves him. Cas loves him and that’s why he’s still here, and why he’s done everything he ever has for Dean. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have taken him this long to get that, but, as Sam said, he’s an idiot. God, he’s an idiot. 

Part of him aches to run in there now and find Cas and apologise because he _knows_ now, but he can’t do that. He can’t do that because every time he thinks of making a move toward redemption or a relationship, that fear comes bubbling back up and freezes him on the spot, because despite everything, there’s still the part of his brain screaming at him that he _can’t_ like Cas like that because Cas is a _man_. Maybe one day he’ll be ready, but tonight isn’t that time. 

***

As it turns out, the lore about Cherufe’s is wrong. Decapitation doesn’t work.

What looks like a really ugly, tall, bulky human with sandpaper for skin and fingers like tree-branches turns to Sam, who is blinking bewilderedly at his machete, which is stuck in the Cherufe’s neck. Dean knows for a fact that Sam can behead things without any trouble, so either his machete is blunt (which it isn’t, Dean made sure of that before they came in here) or the Cherufe’s neck is too thick for it to go through and every bit of information the internet managed to provide them with was bullshit. 

Its skin is steaming from where him and Cas doused it in water, and it roars, breaking them all out of their trance. The only advantage they have now is that it should take it a few minutes at least to heat back up, but that is according to the same lore that said they could chop its head off. Even though there are three of them, and they’re all excellent hunters – even Cas, despite the fact he’s hardly more than a baby in a trench-coat (or tonight jeans and a cotton jacket) – the Cherufe is strong and, despite its size, surprisingly fast. 

Dean pulls his own machete (the one Bobby gave him for Christmas) out at the same time Sam drops and does a really badass ninja roll away from the monster, which swipes out at him with its dinner-plate sized hands. “What’d we do now?” Sam yells over another one of the Cherufe’s roars, jumping to his feet and arming himself with a metal pole, which will do about as much as a stick of spaghetti. 

“Uh,” Dean eyes the monster, which is waving its arms around and spinning in a way that would be comical if it weren’t slowly catching fire. “We put it out again?”

“We don’t have any more water,” Cas reminds him, and they’re working so Dean is ignoring the fact that he’s ignoring him.

“We should probably get out of here,” Sam says, slowly circling back around to the same side of the room as him and Cas, which is also the same side as the door.

“Not without killing it,” Dean replies, not taking his eyes off the Cherufe.

“We don’t have a way to kill it!” Cas barks. “Sam’s right, we need to leave.”

Dean’s about to agree, because as much as he hates leaving anything half-finished there’s not much they can do against a flaming monster without water and any idea how to kill it, but then the said flaming monster finishes its power-up dance and is roaring, charging toward them. They scatter, Cas ducking and running around behind it, and Dean and Sam jumping backwards.

“Was there any other way you found to kill it?” Dean says, swiping out with his machete and managing to take off one of its fingers. “Or even _stop_ it for a bit?” In retrospect, he probably should have read through the research, but he was too busy wallowing and now they’re gonna die. 

“One myth said –” Sam pauses as he dodges a fire-ball (of course it can shoot fucking fire-balls), “– that it could be killed by fire.”

If he weren’t concentrating on not getting his head smashed in or his body set on fire, then Dean would comment on how killing a fire-monster with fire is stupid. But maybe the only choice they have now is to fight fire with fire, pun intended, except they don’t have any flame-throwers convenient right now. 

Suddenly the building is shaking and Dean is being thrown backwards by an invisible shock-wave. _Gunpowder_ , he remembers, _this is a gunpowder factory_. They should have seen it coming; they knew the Cherufe was semi-sentient so of course it’d have some form of defence if hunters came knocking. There are flames everywhere; crawling up the walls, licking at his back, quickly consuming everything; as it does causing smaller explosions, blowing holes in walls and knocking roof-beams loose.

Dean can’t see the Cherufe, but right now his number one priority is getting them all out of there. He feels panic rising up inside him, coupled with fear that he can’t be allowed to feel right now because his brain needs to be in tip-top shape. He hates fire. Fire is what killed his mother and was almost all he saw for decades in Hell; it takes, it consumes, it doesn’t leave anything behind, and once it has you there is no escape. It’ll sizzle the skin from your bones, destroy everything in sight and bring it crashing down on top of you.

“ _Sam_?” Dean shouts urgently, pushing the memories away. 

“I’m here!” Sam replies, pushing a section of corrugated metal off of him and crawling out, luckily untouched by the fire.

He claps Sam on the back and turns around, squinting to see through the smoke and flames. “ _Cas_!” he yells. “Cas where are you?”

“Dean, I’m here!” a voice calls, followed by a raking cough.

Dean rushes forward, the only thought in his mind _save Cas_ because he can’t let another person he loves be taken by fire, but is stopped short by a fallen roof-beam. There are flames and debris and then, on the other side of it all, Castiel, pressed up against the wall of the warehouse, distancing himself as much as possible from the leaping embers.

“Cas, I’m gonna get you out!” He frantically scans over everything, looking for a way though the fire, but there’s nothing. “Hold on! I’m gonna get you out!”

Dean can feel the heat of the fire searing through his clothes, but he’s doesn’t give it any mind. He needs to get Cas out of there, and that’s all that matters.

“ _Dean_!” Cas yells. “Dean, you have to go!”

Dean coughs as he accidentally inhales a lungful of smoke, and brings his sleeve up over his face, but it doesn’t do much to help. His eyes meet Cas’ over the wall of flames, and Dean can see his fear – which he is trying so hard to hide – and his desperation to be saved, but also the surety that he’s going to die and that Dean needs to leave, but Dean isn’t going to let that happen. The roof creaks violently, and Dean knows it’s only a matter of time until it caves in completely, burying him and Sam as well as Cas.

“Dean, there’s no point you dying too!” Cas yells, his blue eyes reflecting the orange, which would look attractive if not for the fact they’re quite possibly about to die.

“I’m not leaving here without you,” Dean says, reaching out to try and move a bit of the debris, but getting instantly scalded by the fire. He’s starting to panic, big time. There has to be a way, there’s _always_ a way. He saves people. It’s what he does. He doesn’t let the people he loves die, except, a voice in his head which sounds disconcertingly like Alistair says, _he does_. 

Dean’s desperate, and he’s about to run forward, because logic and reason are unimportant right now, when strong arms are wrapping around him from behind and holding him back. “Dean, we have to get out,” Sam says near his ear, his voice croaky from the obvious lack of air in his lungs.

“NO!” Dean yells, fighting against his grip. 

“ _Dean_ ,” he says at the same time as Cas yells ‘go.’ 

“You’ll die if you don’t!” Cas winces as the flames jump out at him. 

“Cas –” he chokes, feeling his insides constrict in a way that has nothing to do with the smoke.

“Dean, please,” Cas’ eyes are wide and pleading, which just makes Dean all the more determined to save him. He can’t let Cas burn he – _crap_ he needs to save him.

Sam tries to pull him backwards, but Dean pushes against his grip. “Dean, stop fighting, we have to go,” he says, and then lets out a rasping cough.

It’s a funny thing, watching someone you love die and knowing there’s nothing you can do about it because _you’re not good enough_ and you didn’t get there quick enough and it’s because of one of your many fuck-ups that they’re where they are now, minutes or seconds away from being gone. Dean can feel his heart being torn into pieces, each one symbolising one of the days that Cas will never get to live because of him. Hell, he isn’t sure when exactly he accidentally signed Cas’ death warrant, just that he did, because it’s his responsibility to save people and stop things like this happening.

Sam manages to drag him backwards, partially because he’s stronger and partially because Dean feels numb and separate from everything, the fight having left his body. His eyes lock onto Cas’, and he reaches a hand out, _willing_ himself to somehow grab him, drag him away from the fire and promise of an painful, violent death. Cas does the same and for a moment Dean lets himself imagine that he’s actually holding his hand, that they’ll run out of here together, and then later look back on it as nothing but a bad memory as they lie together, happy and content. 

“Dean, I –” and then the roof caves in, blocking Dean’s view, and he vaguely registers himself shouting, but it’s like someone placed cottonwool over his ears. 

“CAS!” he shouts, but they’re already out on the sidewalk. Dean isn’t sure when that happened, and takes a step forward because Cas might not be dead. He might still be able to save him. 

Sam grabs his sleeve and holds him back. “Dean. Dean, he’s gone. There’s nothing we can do. Dean, stop.” Dean didn’t even realise he was still fighting, and his body all but collapses. A part of his head tells him to stop it, because Sam’s sad as well. Sam wants to rush in there just as much as he does, because Cas is _Sam’s_ friend too, but he doesn’t care. Sam might still care about Cas, but not as much as Dean does. Never as much as Dean does.

“I can’t,” Dean whispers. “I can’t. Sammy, I –”

_I need him._

_I can’t fail him._

_I can’t let him be dead._

_I love him._

“I know,” Sam says, swinging an arm around Dean from behind, his palm splayed out over his chest, whether as an act of comfort or to keep him running off Dean isn’t sure. 

It’s like there’s a fire consuming Dean, but it burns cold, numbing him and then returning in sharp stabs that leave him screaming and anguished. He is numb to emotion and yet so very _exposed_ at the same time, everything bleeding together until it is both unable to be felt and so overwhelming that there will never be anything else. Cas – _his_ Cas – is burning beneath lumps of rusted metal and cracked plaster, probably screaming as his flesh blackens and his hair is singed from his head and his eyes – the beautiful blue that were the first thing Dean fell in love with – popping from his head, all while he shouts to be saved but no one comes. 

A small part of Dean’s brain notices that his cheeks are wet and that those sobs and broken yells are coming from him, and that’s why his throat feels raw, but it doesn’t matter. For once Dean doesn’t care that he’s crying, because the person he _loves_ is dead. He loves Castiel more than words can say, and now it’s too late. A whole new bout of pain shoots through him when he realises that Cas died not knowing, thinking that Dean hated him when in fact it was the complete opposite. He never got to tell Cas, and now he never will, because it is all over. There is no longer space for redemption or a _tomorrow_ wherein he will vow to apologise and make it right. There isn’t going to be a ‘next time’ or a ‘later’ or a ‘maybe when they’ve had time to think.’ There’s no more making it up as they go along, or promising that it’ll all be okay and that whatever happens, they’ll be there for each other. He didn’t tell Cas when he had the chance, instead blatantly _ignoring_ him because he was too scared, and now he’ll never get to.

Dean’s never felt this kind of hurt before; not when his mom died, not when his dad died, not when he went to Hell. The only thing that comes close was when he held Sammy in his arms and felt the life leave him, but remembering the full weight of that is hard because Sam is fine now. There’s no demon deal that Dean can make to bring Cas back, because he’s pretty damn sure that angel’s don’t have souls to pop back in. Besides, he doubts any demon would be stupid enough to make another deal with a Winchester.

Cas’ last words were _Dean, I_ – and Dean is pretty sure how he knows how that sentence was going to end, but he’ll never be sure. He’ll spend the rest of his days with it eating away at him, full of regret at the things he never said and steps he never took. 

Then the warehouse explodes and Dean feels the last shard of his world as he knew it exploding too. He is no longer drowning, he is burning, and it is so, so much worse. Castiel is burning too, except unlike Dean, he won’t make it out, and forevermore the unsaid words will hang before Dean, crushing him with their weight, and he’ll never be able to do anything to fix it. 

Castiel is dead, and Dean, once again, is unfathomably broken.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

People describe the feeling you get when someone you love dies as this massive hole being opened up inside you; an empty void where they used to be that, although it never heals, gets better over time. They say it’s like your world is suddenly crashing down around your ears, a whole new pain that’s more intense than anything you’ve ever felt before, that leaves you wanting to cry and lash out at someone, everyone, _anyone_ because they can’t be dead. They just _can’t_ because it isn’t fair. They say it’s like these shadows are squeezing down around you, and for a while all you can see is the black and all you can feel is the cold, empty hole in your gut and you feel so numb nothing feels real.

Dean thinks this is absolute bullshit. He’s experienced his fair share of deaths – hell, basically everyone he cares about has died at one point or another – and maybe then he might have agreed with the common-place description, but this is a whole new experience.

Dean would kill to just have a hole inside him, because holes can be filled with alcohol and   greasy diner food and bad TV, but he doesn’t have a hole. It feels more like a vacuum, like everything is constricting down on itself, the moments spent with Castiel and without Castiel getting mixed up and confused, some jumping to the surface and then being pushed back again only to be overtaken by new ones, the relentless onslaught not pausing for a second. And sure, his world is crashing down around his ears, but not in veils of darkness and shadow like one would think. It’s _burning_. He can feel a fire biting at his skin that has nothing to do with the burning warehouse in front of him. It’s consuming him from every angle at once, somehow starting in the pit of his stomach and high in his chest and in his throat and from somewhere outside of him too, burning down his future and his past and leaving nothing but the _now_.

Except that too is a lie. He isn’t even sure what happened when anymore. He might have been standing here for seconds or hours or maybe even days and he wouldn’t know the difference. The only indication of time he has is the days that were and the days that will never be. 

Obviously everyone else who has ever tried describing death is either stupid or they’ve never lost the love of their life who never even got to _know_ , because Dean feels nothing like anything he’s ever heard before. 

He thinks that Sam might be talking but he isn’t sure because all he can hear is this buzzing in his ears, and there might be hands on his shoulders or there could just as likely be none. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been this absolutely _lost_ before. Cas is dead. _Cas is dead_. Cas can’t be dead, though. Cas isn’t allowed to be dead because Dean _needs_ him. Except Dean never, ever has what he needs, especially when the need is mutual.

He watches the fire in front of him reach up into the night sky, the smoke blotting out the stars but the embers trying to take their place, floating and glowing in the sky for seconds before falling back down to earth and sizzling out. He can hear the croaks and groans of the building’s metal frame as it is forced to expand and stretch under the force of the hellish inferno. Dean doesn’t often compare things to Hell capital-H, because he has firsthand knowledge of what that actually _means_ but the fire before him looks like _Hell_ , orange and heated and full of twisted metal. Probably by his imagination, because there’s no way his nose is that sensitive, he thinks he can smell the bubble of flesh and acrid stench of burning hair. Maybe he’s back in Hell, and maybe this has all been some new, creative way of torture; give him someone he loves and then tear them away from him in the most horrific way possible. Maybe the fire is just reality seeping through and burning down the illusion, just like it’s burning down every part of Dean’s world. For a moment he thinks he sees a figure in the flames – maybe standing there, maybe walking forward, he can’t be sure – but then he blinks around his tears and it’s gone. 

But no… there’s a flash of something again, moving quickly, darting out of the flames, only visible for seconds at a time. A slither of hope rises up inside of Dean, which he desperately tries to crush because it’s much more likely it’s the Cherufe than Castiel, because one is a monster made of fire and the other is all but human. There might not even be anything there, just his grief-addled mind playing tricks on him, and he’s almost convinced himself as such but then Sam gasps. “Did you see something?” he asks, hands that are now more definable lifting off of Dean’s shoulders.

“No,” Dean doesn’t know why he said that. “No, I don’t know. Maybe, I –” his voice doesn’t even sound like his own, because he’s never heard it that cracked and weak before. He shakes his head, and then quietly says, “I don’t know.” 

“Do you think…?” Sam looks over at him with a glint in his eye so hopeful it makes Dean want to fall to the ground and cry, his manliness be damned. He doesn’t even know why anymore he just… he just wishes he could have hope like that, or more accurately _allow_ himself to have hope like that. 

“Don’t,” Dean says, and he can’t elaborate, but Sam doesn’t seem to need him to because his brows furrow and he stops talking.

Then several things happen at once. 

First, the back wall of the warehouse collapses in, the sound jarring Dean’s ear drums. The shockwave reaches them even where they are, making Dean flinch involuntarily. Then, the fire must reach a new bit of residue gunpowder because an explosion – not big enough to knock another wall down but big enough to cause new flames to go curling out in every direction – occurs, making the ground beneath them rumble.

And last – and Dean isn’t even sure if his brain and eyes are seeing the same thing – the figure appears again, sprinting away from the fire, head down and arm slung over their face. They lift their head and Dean is met by blue eyes, framed by a soot-blackened but not burnt face, skin still very much intact and not melted from the bones, and, despite the fact that he knows that that’s not how ghosts work; Dean thinks he’s seeing a ghost.

Flames spring up right behind Castiel, spreading out to either side of him and they look like wings. Horrible, beautiful, fiery wings, bright and orange and hungry, eating at the metal and wood around them but, by some miracle, not at Castiel’s flesh. The fire twirls and dances through the air, not unlike feathers being displaced by the breeze, but unlike other versions of Cas’ wings he has seen, these – although undeniably magnificent – are ones he would be happy never seeing again. Castiel is not fire; he is wind and earth and the sky and feathers and the stars and the moon and tiny smiles and furrowed eyebrows and chapped lips and a rough palm and blue eyes, but _not_ fire. 

Dean almost doesn’t want to believe what he’s seeing, but then he realises that’s stupid because of course he wants that. Of course he wants Cas to be alive and well and very-much not-dead, except something nags at the back of his head telling him it’s too good to be true because no-one could make it out of there alive, and after all, he doesn’t get to have things he wants. But hell, Dean’s gonna ignore that because right now Cas is running toward them – toward _him_ – his wings of fire dissipating more and more with every step.

“ _Cas_ ,” he chokes, his legs taking a step forward before his mind can even give the order. “Cas.”

“Dean. Dean, I –” and then before he really knows what he’s doing and can go through all the reasons that it’s probably a bad idea, Dean is grabbing Cas by the lapels of his jacket and he’s kissing him. 

Cas’ mouth is rough and chapped beneath his, but he doesn’t move to explore more, because that’s not what now is about. He just stands there; eyes squeezed shut to hold back the tears, with his mouth pressed against Castiel’s. Cas doesn’t move, and Dean can feel how stiff and frozen and probably disgusted and terrified and angry he is. Dean pulls away and opens his eyes, ready to apologise and more-likely-than-not run away, but then Cas meets his eyes, grabs the back of his head and pulls him back in.

Dean wasn’t expecting it, and so it takes him a second to register that _he’s kissing Cas_. He’s kissing Cas and holy fuck, does it feel good. He reaches a hand up and runs it through Castiel’s hair before letting it fall to the base of his neck, his thumb stroking the skin just below Cas’ collar. Cas’ hands are carding furiously through his own hair, and there is no gracefulness or hesitation like one would expect in a first kiss. Instead, they are urgent and needy, because they’ve both been waiting so long for this, and Dean thought he’d lost Cas forever and… _fuck_.

Cas’ tongue swipes out to lick at Dean’s lower lip, and Dean doesn’t even think before opening his mouth and letting Cas in, his tongue carding along the sensitive roof of his mouth. Every one of Dean’s manly instincts is telling him that he should be the one in control, but _fuck_ Cas is really good at kissing and Dean can’t bring himself to mess up their rhythm. He tilts his head to the side and slings an arm around Cas’ waist, improving their angle and stability so that… yep and that’s Cas’ hand sliding up under his shirt. 

Dean pulls away, but only enough to press a rough kiss to the underside of Cas’ jaw, open-mouthed and angry and _needing_. Cas lets out a grating moan, pulling on Dean’s hair in a way that would hurt if it weren’t so damn sexy and shoving their mouths back together. 

Dean’s never really understood the whole ‘fireworks’ analogy before, except now he does. Where his and Cas’ skin touches he can feels it sizzling with electricity and colours dance behind his closed eyelids every time Cas does that thing with his tongue, or huffs heavily onto the side of his mouth, or their stubble rubs together, all prickly and rough and _goddamnit_ Dean shouldn’t find it as hot as he does. He’s never really understood either how the _world can stop_ when you kiss someone, because the world’s always moving and you’re always paying attention to what’s happening, even if you think you’re not, but now he gets that too. If the moon fucking fell to earth right now, Dean thinks he probably wouldn’t even notice, or either wouldn’t care, because he’s kissing Cas and Cas is kissing him back.

If Dean’s honest with himself, this isn’t how he thought the start of his and Cas’ relationship would happen, not that he even thought about them having a relationship until recently. He thought there might be lots of intense staring and then some hand-holding and then finally a quick, chaste kiss that would then turn into a deeper one, slow and passionate. He didn’t think it would be sloppy and heated like this; hands tightly grasping hips and running along exposed skin, fingers tugging at hair and pressing into necks and shoulders so hard they’re bound to leave a mark; open-mouthed kisses and Cas’ tongue prodding at Dean’s and teasing against planes of Dean’s mouth that he didn’t even know _existed_ ; hot air blown against each other cheeks and jaws and the same, breathless desire clear in their every move. 

Dean’s past the point of so much as knowing where they are, let alone caring, because he nearly lost Cas and he loves him and _this_ has been boiling under the surface for months now, and it was only a matter of time until they both snapped. “ _Dean_ ,” Cas whispers, his eyes closed and hands all over Dean, pressing and pulling at skin and clothes and hair. 

Dean feels the familiar burn of lust rising up inside of him – he’s never been this turned on from so little contact before – but it’s coupled with the _other one_ , the one that he gets only around Cas that he’s just gonna stop being a wuss and call _love_ , because that’s what it is. He probably wouldn’t be this absolutely wanton and desperate, except relief of that magnitude does something to people, and he _is_ only human. 

Then the moment is broken by a loud, deliberate cough over to their left. “Uh, guys?” Sam says quietly. Crap, Dean had completely forgotten that Sam was here as well. That’s… _awkward_ considering he was just making out with Cas and moaning and all around being gayer than he’s ever been before and, if Cas weren’t so damn… _Cas-like,_ would ever want to be again. 

Dean quickly untangles himself from Cas and looks over to Sam, who is pointedly looking at the sky. “What?” Dean asks, and his voice sounds low and gritty, so he clears his throat and tries again. “What?”

“I’m glad you guys are, uh, sorting out your differences and all, it’s uh, really good, but could it maybe wait because there’s a building burning down right there and we need to leave before the fire-brigade get here. And we probably should go to a hospital or something because we all inhaled a lot of smoke. And Cas could be burnt.” Sam is still pointedly looking anywhere but at them, and Dean supposes he has a reason to because they were just one step away from undressing each other. Dean’s arousal is slowly dissolving, but that doesn’t hide the fact that he’s still sporting a half-hard erection, and if he were to let himself look down at Cas’ crotch (which is _isn’t_ because that’ll either trigger him to freak out because _he caused that_ or to jump Cas all over again and do him right now in the middle of the overgrown car-park, audience be damned) then he’s pretty sure he’d see the same.

What Sam said registers and Dean looks over at Cas, who looks dishevelled from their _sorting out of differences_ but also covered in soot from the fire and with burns on his clothes that very possibly could go down to his skin. Dean knows that his own left calf is a bit singed, so Cas must be far worse. “Fuck, Cas, are you okay?”

“Relatively,” he nods. “There is nothing that requires urgent medical attention.”

Sam must decide it’s safe to look back over at them now because he meets Cas’ eyes. “How’d you get out?” he asks. “I mean, you were trapped there. There was no way out, I looked, Dean looked, we were –” Sam lets out a relieved huff and shakes his head. “God, we thought you were dead.”

A lump rises back up in Dean’s throat, and he spares a glance over at Cas. Even though he’s safe now, the mere memory of what it was like to lose him steals Dean’s breath and freezes him on the spot. Because he just needs to know that he’s there, Dean grabs his hand, and without even looking at him or questioning, Cas squeezes back. 

“I suppose it was mostly adrenaline,” Cas frowns. “I managed to, in terms that you would understand, create a barrier between myself and the fire. If the circumstances weren’t so dire I wouldn’t have been able to call up that much grace. If you had asked me I wouldn’t have thought I had that much left it was… it was a last desperate attempt.”

“And the Cherufe?” Sam asks. Dean probably should care more about all the details and blah, blah, blah, but really he’s just happy that Cas is safe. Maybe when his head has had time to register everything that just happened – from Cas nearly dying, to the grief that came with that, to Cas not being dead to the fact that they just made-out and it felt awesome – Dean will find it in him to give a crap whether the Cherufe is dead, or how exactly Cas managed to pull up that much angel-mojo when he can’t even heal a paper-cut anymore, but right now he just wants to grab Cas and kiss him and fall asleep next to him and just _be okay_. 

“It perished. It seems that the myth about it being able to be killed by fire was correct.”

“How does that even work?” Dean asks. “How do you kill something that’s made out of fire _with more fire_?”

“It’s mostly down to the heat of the Cherufe,” Cas begins, but Dean can sense an intricate tirade about things he doesn’t understand and so he cuts him short with an _okay, Einstein_ , which earns him half-hearted glare. 

Sirens sound somewhere to the east, their head’s all turning in that direction. “We need to be gone before the authorities arrive,” Cas says, taking a step toward the Impala, which means unless he’s willing to let go of his hand (which he isn’t) so does Dean. 

Dean looks down at their hands, and then up at Cas’ face, and then over to the car, and then finally to Sam. “Hey, Sammy,” he says, tossing the car-keys over. “You want to drive?”

Sam gives him a knowing look and without even his usual _seriously?_ or _who are you and what have you done with my brother?_ he slides into the driver’s seat and starts up the engine. 

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, and Dean should be the one asking that, but he’s not going to lie, because he owes Cas that much.

“Not really,” he sighs. 

Cas nods and without pressing further opens the door and slides into the back-seat of the Impala. Without letting go of his hand Dean follows. For the first minute of their drive they stay sitting there, a fair amount of space separating them, the only contact being their joined hands, but then Cas sighs and lies down. Dean could remain sitting and have a lap full of Cas-legs or lay down with him, and since that wouldn’t be comfortable for either of them (or who’s he kidding he just wants to be near Cas), he tucks his body down next to his, resting his head on his chest and hooking their legs together. It’s a new type of closeness, this one different from before. There is no urgency or hunger, just warmth and comfort and togetherness.

“Hey, Cas,” he says after a moment, his voice barely even a whisper. 

“Yes, Dean?”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he squeezes down tighter on Cas’ hand because he _needs_ that assurance that he’s not going anywhere. Dean thought that _this_ would have been scarier for him, that whatever this is finally being acknowledged would make him sink into another pit of self-loathing and denial, but it just feels right and good and like everything he’s ever needed. Maybe it was the grief of nearly losing Cas, or the fact that Cas very clearly wants this as much as he does, but either way there is no hesitation that this is what is right.

“I know,” Cas replies quietly. “It’s okay.”

And it isn’t okay; there is still so much that needs fixing and smoothing over, and the memories – even if they don’t really count for anything – of Cas being dead and burning alive are going to eat at Dean for a long while yet, he can feel it. There is still so much more apologising that needs to be done beyond a simple _I’m sorry_ and an _it’s okay_ because even the mutually felt solitude they have now doesn’t take away the fact that they spent two weeks ignoring each other’s existence, and that Dean has screwed Cas over in more ways than he can name.

“Dean, I –” Cas begins, and although Dean is pretty sure he knows how that sentence is going to end and he wants to hear it, but he can’t. Not yet. He just _can’t_.

“Me too,” he interrupts, and Cas seems to understand that those words are too much for now, and that asking Dean to accept them – _really_ accept them because they both know by now that knowing and _knowing_ are two very different things – is too far of a stretch. 

They get back to the house and without saying a word, Sam grabs up his sleeping mat and takes it to another room. Dean is more grateful toward Sammy than he can put into words, because even though sex is no longer on his mind, he needs it to just be him and Cas right now.

By all rights they should clean up and check the severity of their burns and do other important things, but instead they just sink down onto Dean’s bedding-roll. Cas holding him like this doesn’t suddenly make all his problems go away, it doesn’t create any illusion that either of them are _fine_ , but it does supply Dean with the surety that he isn’t alone, and that Cas is here, suffering just as much as he is and that they’ll suffer together, because that’s what they do.

Cas’ hand lands on Dean’s hip and then, for reasons he isn’t even 100% sure of, Dean starts to cry. Dean Winchester doesn’t cry, and he most certainly doesn’t cry into people shoulders as they stoke his back and tell him it’ll be okay, except now he _is_ and it feels good, like a weight is being lifted from him. 

So no, he is not okay, and Cas is not okay and _they_ are not okay, but they’ll make it through, because they always do, and right now that’s all Dean needs; that promise made what seems like lifetimes ago under a streetlight in New York. _Dean Winchester, you are broken, but I’m broken too. Maybe, if you let us, we can be broken together_. 

It goes against so many of his ‘you have to do this alone because you’re not worth being looked after’ instincts, but hell, he’s going to _let_ them be. Right now though, he’s going to go to sleep next to Cas; knowing that finally, after months of dancing around their feelings and fumbling through the dark, they both _know_ , and it feels good. 


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

Castiel had never really expected things to turn out like this. He had never really believed that waking up in Dean’s arms and being allowed to kiss him if wants to would be an option. He had never thought that Dean would kiss him back, and then sigh and bury his head in his shoulder, with that single gesture conveying how much he wants to just stay there with Castiel for a while longer, pretending that they, and everything around them, are okay. He had never thought that the next step for them would be a result of his very-near demise, and that death would be what it took for them to both open their eyes to the reality of the situation. 

He’s not going to forget it anytime soon; the wall of fire separating him from Dean, who looked so desperate, so _determined_ to save him that that had almost hurt more than the fact that he was dying. Castiel had never had nightmares before, except last-night he was woken twice by imagined flames crawling up his body. Dean only woke once, excluding the times he was jolted out of sleep by Castiel’s barely-contained yells, and Cas wants to put it down to the fact that Dean had someone holding onto him, grounding him. 

Dean lifts his head, only to let it fall back down onto Cas’ chest. “G’mornin’,” he mutters, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“Good morning, Dean.” 

Dean sighs and find Castiel’s hand under the sleeping bag, which was unzipped to somewhat accommodate them both. “This is weird,” he says, running his thumb over the palm of Cas’ hand. “Good weird, but weird.”

“I agree,” and he does. It’s been months of trying to gauge what is acceptable, and working out what those feelings are and generally avoiding any discussion as to the nature of their relationship, and now things have rocketed from nothing to _this_ in a heartbeat. 

“I still don’t know why,” Dean starts to elaborate but then gets lost for words. “I mean I’m not… but geez Cas you’re different I guess. I mean… this just feels right, you know? Like I don’t even care you’re a guy anymore,” he pauses. “Well no, I still do but I’m not freaking out about it _as much_ anymore. You’re just Cas.”

Castiel feels a burst of warmth at the words, because he understands what they mean, but something else is still nagging at him. “What are we, Dean?” he asks. It might be too early for this question, but he wants to be clear. He wants to know that he’s allowed to kiss Dean or hold his hand or sleep in the same bed as him without overstepping any boundaries.

“Jesus, Cas, I don’t know. I don’t – I don’t like titles, okay? I mean, even usually, but this is new for me, the whole,” he waves his free hand around vaguely, “you know, dude thing.”

“I’m not asking for a title, I just want to know where my boundaries lay.”                   

“Oh, I guess…” Dean huffs and rolls over so that he’s lying on his back next to Cas, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know that either Cas. To be honest, I don’t know a whole lot about anything at the moment.”

Castiel pushes himself up on an elbow and stares down at Dean. “Can I kiss you?”

Dean gives him a look out of the corner of his eyes. “Dude, you already kissed me at least once this morning and I didn’t punch you.”

“You were still mostly asleep, which made you uninhibited.” 

“You son of a bitch taking advantage of me like that,” Dean says, but his small smile lets Castiel know that he’s welcome to kiss him again if he would like to, and he _would_ like to.

Castiel leans down and presses his lips to Dean’s, and Dean reaches up and cups his cheek, but then suddenly turns his head and coughs. Castiel frowns and pulls back, sending Dean an inquisitive look. “Your mouth tastes like sewage,” he explains with another small cough.

Castiel runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling the furry layer of grime he had been ignoring up until this point. He had started brushing his teeth late last week (around the same time his wings disappeared, the mere thought of which makes a jolt of sadness run through him), but by his calculations it’s been over 24 hours at this point, in which time a lot has happened. “Sorry.”

“’S okay,” Dean says. “We could probably both use a shower.” He blushes and gapes as he searches for words, “I mean, not together obviously. I’m not ready for that. We only just… maybe eventually, but –”

“Dean.”

“I mean I think you’re great and all Cas, and hell, you’re a really good kisser –”

“Dean.”

“But I don’t think –”

“ _Dean_.”

He bites his bottom lip and gives Castiel a look that is somewhere between reproachful and embarrassed. “I don’t want to have a shower with you, Dean. You’re jumping to unnecessary conclusions. I agree though that we should both wash.”

“I’m just glad we found a place with a functioning shower,” Dean grunts, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “You have no idea how rare that is.” 

Castiel stands up and winces as his limbs stretch, the sensitive, very-mildly-burnt skin stinging at the strain. He probably should have had a look at his injuries last night, but they weren’t urgent and it was more important he be with Dean. They both needed the comfort. 

“You okay?” Dean asks, quickly standing up himself and reaching a hand out like Castiel might suddenly collapse.

“I’m fine, Dean.”

“I shouldn’t have kept you after the fire; we should have gotten you to a hospital. Geez, Cas, I was being selfish, I’m sorry.”

“Dean, _I’m fine_ ,” he says more firmly.

“You nearly _died_ ,” Dean chokes on the last word, and won’t meet Castiel’s eyes. 

“I didn’t.”

“But you might have and,” he runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in spikes, “and it would have been my fault, Cas, because I couldn’t save you, and I was being an ass and… I’m really sorry about everything.” 

“It wouldn’t have been your fault if I had, but I _didn’t_ so –”

“Don’t you fucking dare and tell me ‘it’s all okay’ because it sure as hell isn’t, and you know that.”   

Castiel looks away, his jaw clenching. “You’re right, it isn’t. But it will be.”

“What if it won’t, Cas?” Dean asks, his voice wavering between angry and pleading. “What if I mess it all up again? What if I fail you one time too many and you decide that I’m not worth it anymore? Or what if I end up getting you killed like I thought I did last night, because everyone I –” he chokes, but Castiel knows he’d been about to say _everyone I love_ , which is quite a small list of people when it comes down to it. Dean shakes his head and continues. “Everyone I’ve ever given a crap about has gotten hurt ‘cause of me. That’s what I do. I get people killed. I try to save them, I do everything I can but time after time after time they just keep dying and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t lose you too, but if you stay with me you’ll keep getting hurt so you should just leave while you’ve still got all your limbs and before you get too attached, except I don’t wanna let you do that because I’m selfish.” He deflates and lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t let you die, Cas.” 

There’s a knock on the doorframe and Sam pokes his head in, eyes shut. “Are you both decent?” 

Castiel can’t help feeling a stab of anger at Sam for interrupting their conversation, because it really is difficult to get Dean to open up and here he was baring his soul to Castiel. But he shoves it down because Sam wasn’t to know. 

“’Course we are,” Dean says haughtily. 

“Good,” Sam walks in, his hair damp from a shower. “How are you feeling, Cas?” 

“I’m okay,” Castiel replies, glaring at Dean when he gives him a sharp look. “My injuries aren’t any greater than they would be if I was sunburnt.”

“Like hell they are,” Dean says incredulously, taking a step forward. He grabs Castiel’s arm and shoves up his shirt sleeve, revealing flesh which looks slightly red and raw, but not burnt. Dean meets his eyes, his surprise clear on his face. “You’re not burnt.”

“Thank you for that observation,” Castiel says flatly.

“Go wash up,” Dean drops his arm and then lets a hand run slowly over Castiel’s cheek. “And shave while you’re at it. You’ve got some nice peach-fuzz growing there.” Castiel reaches up and touches his chin and sure enough there is more than just his vessels usual stubble there. “Don’t look so confused, that’s what happens when you’re human,” Dean’s face suddenly drops, but a smile takes back over quickly, one that would look real to anyone but him or Sam. 

“Do you have a razor I could use?” he asks, instead of acknowledging whatever it is that’s now going on inside Dean’s head.

“Yeah, there should be one in my shower bag,” he replies somewhat absently, his eyes unfocused and staring at a point on the floor. 

Castiel nods a thank you and with one last worried glace at Dean, leaves the room. When he reaches the end of the hall he can hear Sam try to start up a conversation, his tone overly-light, but then Dean replies with something sharp and angry and an awkward silence follows. 

As he showers, Castiel tries to think about anything except the fire or Dean, which proves to be harder than he would have thought. His thoughts constantly wander back to the horror of those few moments wherein he thought it was all over; to that kiss with Dean – the desperate and messy one – and the softer ones this morning that had made a burst of warmth bubble up in the pit of his stomach; to Dean’s unwavering certainty that Castiel is going to leave him at one point or another and to the endless questions he has, about Dean and for Dean and about what this is that they seem to have built.

Castiel knows that Dean feels for him – _loves_ him even – but how long can it last without all falling apart? How long will it be before some stupid mistake or one of Dean’s many insecurities breaks what little they have? Castiel will never stop trying to dismantle the walls Dean has built up and instead craft stronger, sturdier foundations for their relationship, whether it be platonic or _more_. He won’t give up, but it’ll take both of them working their very hardest to make sure this whole thing doesn’t spiral into disaster. Dean has to _let_ Castiel help him, and hold onto the belief that he isn’t going anywhere and work up from that. Even if they have nothing else, even if there are more holes in their relationship than there are freckles on Dean’s face, they have to both believe in each other before anything else, because when their lives are as uncertain and rickety as theirs always are, sometimes they don’t have anything beyond hope. 

He wants to be this – whatever _this_ is – for Dean, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. He wants to be able to kiss Dean and hold his hand when it’s cold – or just because he feels like it – and hold him tightly and _make_ things be okay, even when they aren’t. He wants Dean to open up to him, and to be able to open up to Dean, and to make sure he doesn’t get some foolish idea in his head that Castiel is thinking something he isn’t, a result of him over-analysing something or another, as he is so prone to do. Long story short, he just wants whatever it is they’ve been building for the last few months to keep being built, as slow as they would like, but forever growing. 

A part of Castiel still resents Dean for the way he shut him out – for _two weeks_ – but he knows that Dean was scared and he respects that because he’s scared as well, maybe not as much as Dean, because he lacks all the predisposed ideas about what he should and should not be feeling, but this is all horribly new to him. He still feels like he’s walking along a tightrope, suspended in the dark, no end in sight but no beginning clear either, his steps wobbly and precarious, all it needing to take for him to plummet into oblivion being one toe out of place. He has never felt this way about anyone else. But when it comes down to it, there is no-one he would rather be walking the tightrope with him than Dean, because he knows that he’ll reach out and steady him if he starts to fall. 

Castiel meets his own eyes in the mirror as he brushes his teeth and tries to understand what Dean sees in him. For him, there is no uncertainty that Dean is everything he wants and needs. He loves Dean more than anything; every part of him, even the ones that are so far distorted they are not even a shell of what they used to be and the ones that make Castiel feel so _angry_ , angrier than he’s ever felt before; the ones that insist on doing the most _stupid_ , self-destructive things that will get no one nowhere. Then there are the parts of Dean that are brave and selfless and loyal, that devote themselves to saving people he doesn’t even know and sacrificing his happiness for that of everyone around him. There are Dean’s smiles and the jokes he makes that Castiel doesn’t understand, and how enthusiastic he gets when talking about music or his car. Castiel on the other hand isn’t anything special; he was thrown out of Heaven because he couldn’t meet even the most basic standards. He’s flawed and selfish and full of misplaced anger, and he’ll never be good enough. But maybe that’s why Dean feels the way he does; because, in their own eyes, neither of them are good enough. 

He can hear shouts coming from down the hall, most of which are Dean’s, but every now and then Sam too will raise his voice. He shouldn’t be listening, but considering he is already as far away from them as he can get without climbing out the window, he doesn’t have much of an option.

“What’re you trying to say to me, Sam?” Dean shouts.

Sam’s reply is muffled, but Castiel can clearly hear the impatience in his tone. 

“And what exactly do I have to _mess up_?”

Sam answers, but the only word Castiel catches is his name, which – despite the better part of him saying to stop listening because it really is none of his business, perks up his interest further.

“I don’t know what I have with Cas, okay?” Dean asks, quieter, and Castiel has to strain his ears to hear. “I mean, I know that I – I want that, but I don’t know if he does.”

Now Sam is the one yelling. “Are you stupid? Of course Cas wants it, and you know that. You’re just too scared to acknowledge that you _both_ want to be something else.”

Dean’s reply is quiet, and the only thing Castiel picks up is the defeated note in his voice. 

“No, I’m sorry Dean, but that’s crap! I get that you’re scared, but don’t mess things up, if not for you or Cas then for _my_ sake because I’m not taking another two weeks of you acting like dad.” There is a pause wherein Dean says something. “You were acting like dad and you know it! Anyway, that’s not the point.”

“Then get to the goddamn point,” Dean shouts. 

“The point is that you obviously love Castiel, and he loves you back, and you’re just being stupid hiding from it anymore.” Dean starts to talk but Sam cuts him off. “I’ve known since _Christmas_ , Dean. I don’t mind being the third wheel as long as you’re _happy_. So go seize the day and all of that.”

Castiel hears footsteps and then the slam of the front door, followed by a loud sigh from Sam. Castiel washes his face free of shaving foam (he was a multi-dimensional being, observing humanity for millennia, so shaving wasn’t the hardest thing he’s ever had to work out), collects up his clothes from last night – which are too burnt to be worn again – and walks back to the main room of the house, finding Sam sitting on the window-ledge with his hands over his face. He jumps up when Cas walks in. “Hey, are you feeling better now?” he asks with a smile that’s obviously manufactured.

“Yes I am. Thank you, Sam.”

Sam looks down at Cas’ clothes. “You’re wearing your trench-coat again,” he says with a smile that is more genuine.

Castiel nods and smooths down the lapels of his coat, and then adjusts his tie, which is still backwards because it turns out tying ties is harder than it looks, unlike shaving. “It felt… fitting.” Depending on Dean’s mood, this will be the start of something new, and he has always met new beginnings in the same way. Every beginning that still counts for something – when he first met Dean, when he began to fall – he has been wearing these same clothes, and they hold sentimental value. 

Sam smiles, but then glances in the direction of the door and sighs. “Dean’s being difficult.”

“I know. I overheard the blunt of your conversation.” 

“Oh,” Sam blinks. “Oh, well then I don’t need to tell you as well that I don’t mind what’s going on between you and Dean as long as you’re happy.”

“I heard that, and thank you, Sam.”

Sam gives him a look, worried and questioning. “Can I ask you a personal question?” He sits back down on the window-ledge and after a moment’s hesitation Castiel joins him.

“If I say no you’re going to ask anyway.”

“You’re right, I probably would, but can I?”

“I don’t have anything to hide.”

Sam nods and bites his lip. “How long have you, you know, loved Dean like that? I mean, the first time I really picked up on it was at Christmas, but it must have been before that, right?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know. I suppose… I suppose a part of me has loved him for a long while, but I didn’t even realise what I was feeling until recently.” He smiles humourlessly. “I thought I was ill.” 

“Oh god.” Sam raises his eyebrows. “Wait, so you know that Dean loves you as well, right? I mean, of course you do, but he _really, really_ loves you. Anyone with eyes can see it. Don’t let him be a jerk, okay? Because I think you guys could have something really good and I want that for you both, especially Dean because he needs that.”

“He’s…”

“Dean,” Sam says at the same time as Castiel. “He doesn’t know how to react when it comes to feelings, so sometimes you just have to give him an extra push. I probably should be giving you the whole ‘if you hurt my brother I’ll hurt _you_ ’ speech, but I’m really not worried about you hurting him, I’m worried about him hurting you. I guess what I’m trying to say is just… just be careful.”

“I’m just as likely to fracture our relationship as Dean is,” Castiel says, but even as the words leave his mouth he knows it’s a lie. He is, by no stretch, perfect, and he has no experience when it comes to _any_ of this, but he accepts what he feels and despite his fear he has stopped running. Dean – although acknowledging it – hasn’t yet accepted it, and Castiel doesn’t know how long it will be until he does. Dean is also infinitely more hot-headed and likely to start an argument, or alternately refuse to fix what is broken. Castiel has his issues as well – there is still so much he is reserved about – but this is too precious to him to break.

Sam gives him a side-long glance that says he knows exactly what Castiel was just thinking. “Don’t let him be an ass, and if he is being an ass make sure he sorts out whatever issues he has, because I really want this to work for you guys.” Sam huffs. “I never thought I’d be playing matchmaker for my brother and a falling angel, but here we are.”

“Here we are,” Castiel agrees. 

Sam stands up and goes to walk out of the room, but then turns around at the last moment. “Oh and Cas?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“Go ask my brother on date will you? A real, honest to God date, because I think that even though he’s an emotionally stunted idiot, he’d really like that, but he sure as hell isn’t going to take that step. I’ll book you some dinner reservations at this nice restaurant I saw in town.”

Castiel frowns and tilts his head at Sam. The whole time Dean was trying to find Castiel a date, he was constantly remarking how ‘lame’ it was and how he ‘hates dating because it’s stupid’ and oodles of other things that negate what Sam just said.

“Remember how I said once that Dean usually says the exact opposite of what he’s actually thinking?” Sam asks with a raised eyebrow. “Well this is one of those times. Trust me on this one, Cas.”

“Thank you, Sam, I’ll go… I’ll go ask Dean on a _date_ ,” the word feels heavy and foreign on his tongue, despite having said it countless times before. 

As he opens the front door Castiel can’t help feeling that Sam understands his and Dean’s relationship far better than either of them do, and that Sam – despite being the ‘third wheel’ – is the glue that holds them together, and that without him they both would have given up and been lost a long time ago. And so – under instruction from Sam – Castiel is going to ask Dean on a _date_ , and he honestly isn’t sure how to feel about that.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

“I can’t believe I actually let you talk me into this,” Dean mutters, adjusting the cuffs of his suit, the one he usually uses when he’s being an FBI agent. Castiel gives him a side-long glance from where he sits in the passenger-seat of the Impala. “I mean I’m taking you on a _date_ ,” Dean elaborates, putting particular emphasis on the last word. “When I promised I’d find you a date I never thought –”

Castiel leans over and presses his mouth to Dean’s, silencing him. “Oh,” Dean says quietly in between short, chaste kisses. “No, yeah, okay. Okay, I could get used to this.” 

The angle is awkward, and Castiel can feel some part of the car that he doesn’t know the name of digging into his stomach, but like every time he kisses Dean – and the fact that that is now multiple times makes him feel quite self-satisfied – it’s perfect. Dean holds his face in his hands, his thumbs softly stroking the underside of his jaw, but neither of them deepen it. Their mouths still touch gently and move slowly, no presses of tongue or scrapes of teeth, only chapped lips and gentle hands.

Castiel pulls away, unable to keep the smile off his face. Dean makes a high-pitched whining noise in the back of his throat and reaches back out for Castiel, but he bats his hands away. “We have a dinner reservation,” Castiel reminds him, his voice huskier than usual.

Dean swallows and glances down at his lips and then back up to his eyes. “Or we could just make out. Who needs a fancy restaurant? We’ll go to a BigGersons or something later and just make out now.”

Castiel glares at Dean, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. “You are insufferable.” 

Dean winks, but then at the look on Castiel’s face sighs and with an eye-roll opens his door and steps out onto the road. “I still think this is stupid,” he says as Castiel gets out.

“No you don’t,” he replies with another quick kiss to Dean’s lips. He can see that Dean is excited – if quite a bit nervous – and that he has never done anything like this before, and is fighting the large part of himself enjoying it.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” Dean says absently, his eyes following Castiel’s lips as he steps away. “It ain’t that bad.”  

Castiel grabs Dean’s hand – mainly just because he _can_ – and pulls him along the footpath with him, a few clumps of uncleared snow crunching under their feet. He can feel Dean looking at him, and so he turns his head to meet his eyes. Dean pulls his hand away from Castiel’s and looks down at the footpath, shoving his hands in his pants pockets.

“Dean?”

“What’re we doing, Cas?” his face is half in shadow and half in light, a soft orange glow cast from the windows of the restaurant. 

“We’re going on a date,” Castiel frowns.

“I know that. I mean, _what’re we doing_. This isn’t us. We don’t… we’re _hunters_ we can’t… we can’t do this, Cas.”

By all rights, Castiel should be angry or hurt, but he can see that Dean isn’t saying it because he doesn’t want this. He’s letting his over-developed sense of duty get in the way, coupled obviously with his fear of the unknown. Castiel grabs his hand again and steps in front of Dean, making him look him in the eyes. “We’re making it up as we go along,” he says quietly, squeezing Dean’s hand. “Trust in me, Dean, that’s all I’m asking.”

Dean closes his eyes, his breaths shaky. His right hand – the one Castiel isn’t holding – is gripping something, his fist clenching down hard around it, only then to loosen and then once again clasp down tightly, the knuckles turning white from the force. Castiel drops Dean’s left hand, and using both of his brings his right one up in line with their chests and carefully pries it open. It’s the ring, the promise ring, and as Castiel picks it up the embedded green swirls catch the light from the window and gleam golden, and Castiel is suddenly met with a memory of Dean’s eyes wide and glowing gold with reflected flames as he screams for Castiel, reaching out a hand, craving for one last touch. He gasps and pushes the memory away, instead picking up Dean’s hand and rubbing circles against the palm until Dean opens his eyes and looks at him.

Castiel smiles slightly and twines their fingers together for a second, before pulling his own away, leaving their fingertips lined up. “This ring,” he says, holding it up, “was my promise that I would fix you. It was my promise that I would never leave you and that I would be the thought that made you crawl your way back out of the darkness. It still means all that. It means more than that.” He sighs and lets his head drop, but then looks back up to Dean. “I could spend hours telling you everything it means to me – to _us_ – but instead I’m just going to say that, Dean, I promise you that we _can_ do this, and that I’m not going to let you get away, because you’re mine and I’m yours and as long as we both want it, we will always be. I –” _I love you_. “I need you.” Castiel slides the ring onto Dean’s finger, and he sighs like a piece is being slotted back into place.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispers scratchily, and then leans in, pressing his lips gently to Castiel’s, only for a second, before pulling back and leaning their foreheads together. Castiel is again overcome with the urge to say _those words_ , that one four-letter word that means the same as _need_ but is stronger; so, so much stronger. Telling Dean he _needs_ him doesn’t do anything justice, because he doesn’t just need him, he is overcome with the need _for_ him. It isn’t specifically sexual, nor particularly romantic when it comes down to it, instead just an instinctual, emotional pull; a chain tying him to Dean, but one he would never dream of trying to break. It is a single pinprick of light, and yet also the darkness in which the light in trapped, everywhere, nowhere, all and nothing. It is the ache in his chest, drawing him to Dean, but only getting stronger in his presence; a beautiful, addictive, painful ache. He doesn’t need Dean, he _loves_ Dean, and he wants to scream it to anyone who will listen, tell them about this wonderful person that is _all his_ , who is terrified of so much, but still the bravest person he will ever meet. He longs to say the words, they thrum against his insides, trying to burst their way out, heavy on his tongue, but he doesn’t because Dean isn’t ready, and he will stick to another lifetime of weak _I need you_ ’s for Dean, even though the words need to be said, because after all, he loves him and love is about patience and acceptance. 

Dean pulls away, one last huff of warm breath ghosting against Castiel’s nose, a tiny smile on his face that makes the corners of his closed eyes crinkle and the dimples at the bases of his cheeks more pronounced. “C’mon,” he whispers, as if he’s reluctant to break the silence. “Sammy will kill us if we miss our reservation.” 

Castiel nods and grabs up Dean’s hand, but he pulls away again. “Later,” he says, and then at Castiel’s confused frown elaborates further. “I mean, there’re people in there and… and I’m still not really comfortable with the idea of people knowing,” the tips of his ears are red and he is refusing to look at Castiel again.

“It’s okay. I understand and I don’t mind. You’re worried about what society will think, because you’ve always succumbed to its conformities, and this – being seen with a man – makes you uncomfortable because it deviates from the illusion you usually give off to people.” Dean isn’t gay, as he so helpfully always points out, but he also seems hesitant to accept that there are other sexualities beyond _gay_ and _straight_. Castiel doesn’t want Dean to keep their relationship a secret, but nor is he asking him to flaunt it to the world, because he knows for a fact how insecure Dean is about _everything_.

“Uh, yeah, that,” Dean agrees. “I’ll… later, okay?”

Castiel nods and gives Dean’s forearm a quick squeeze, before pulling his hand away and burying it in the pocket of his coat. 

“I missed your trench-coat,” Dean says as they walk further up the footpath, the glowing entrance of the restaurant coming closer with every step.

“Me too,” Castiel replies, meaning it with all honesty. 

Dean pushes open the heavy glass door, and after hesitating for a moment holds it open for Castiel as well, a gesture which he appreciates the symbolism of. “Thank you,” he says with another small smile, but Dean just grunts in reply and lets it swing shut.

“Don’t get used to it,” he says pointedly. “I was just doing it because you’re obviously the girl.”

“I’m not –” he frowns. Really, it’s no wonder Dean sees there as needing to be a _girl_ , because being in a relationship with a male – which evidently terrifies him every time he stops to actually think about it – makes him feel less masculine. Castiel isn’t a girl (technically, nor was he a male up until this vessel became _him_ ) but he’ll humour Dean, for a while at least.

“Yeah you are. You’re scrawny and you read poetry.”

Just because he’s humouring him, doesn’t mean Castiel doesn’t glare. They walk into the main portion of the restaurant and are stopped by a man wearing a crisp black tuxedo and a fake, toothy smile; the maître d’. “Hello, how may I help you?” 

“We’ve, uh, we’ve got a reservation?” Dean shuffles from one foot to the other, suddenly looking very uncomfortable and out of his element.

“What was the name?” the man asks, looking down at a clipboard in his hands.

“Uh,” Dean freezes up and glances over at Castiel, who frowns at Dean. 

“McCartney,” he answers, since it seems like Dean isn’t going to. Sam had told them both the name he’d booked their reservation under, but either Dean wasn’t listening (which was highly possible) or he’s frozen under the pressure (which is equally as possible considering how obvious it is Dean’s never done anything like this before).   

The maître d’ looks down at his list, and then smiles toothily. “You’re over there at table twelve. A waiter will be around soon with a wine list.” He gives them a bow which makes Dean frown and take an affronted step back. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Dean grabs Castiel’s elbow. “It’s _Valentine’s Day_?” he hisses. 

Castiel frowns. “I suppose it must be. I wasn’t aware of the date.”

Dean pulls back and straightens his suit jacket, a gesture which up until now Castiel wouldn’t have thought could be pulled off angrily, and weaves through the tables to number 12, which is in the corner right by the window. “I bet Sam planned all of this,” he mutters as they sit down, Dean’s chair noisily scraping across the floor and causing more than a few heads to turn in their direction.

“I hardly think Sam planned for us to…” he trails off, looking for a word to describe whatever it is that happened with them last night (Castiel finds it hard to believe that it was only last night, because it seems weeks ago). He looks over to Dean, who just frowns and shrugs. “To _acknowledge our relationship_ ,” he settles on after a moment, “just before Valentine’s Day.”

“Yeah, but the date,” Dean makes a wide gesture, “the cheesy restaurant and the suits and the goddamn classical music!” He scowls toward the ceiling. “It’s like a scene out of the goddamn Bold and the Beautiful.” He turns his scowl toward Castiel. “And _don’t_ you dare say that that’s a good thing ‘cause it lines up with your _research_ or whatever.” 

Castiel frowns at Dean, who frowns back, and they stare at each other like that for a few moments until Dean chuckles and drops his head. “I have to say though, and don’t freaking breathe a word of this to Sam, but it’s actually pretty nice; the cheesy restaurant and the suits.”

“It’s very _romantic_ ,” Castiel says with a smirk.

“Shut up.”

A waiter appears at the side of their table, two leather-bound folders in his hands, which are assumingly the menus. “Hello, I’m George,” he says in an over-articulated, obviously fake English accent, and Dean lets out one loud snicker before containing himself, “and I’ll be your server for this evening. We’ll start with the wine selection,” he lays one of the red folders in front of each of them.

Dean opens his and he lets out a sound of disbelief. “Cas,” he hisses, “do you know anything about wine?”

“No,” he looks down at his own list, which has at least two-dozen different names listed, and he meets Dean’s eyes.

“Crap. Uh, we’ll have the, uh _Refuzco dal Ped-uncle-ololo-lo Rosso_ ,” he says, pronouncing the name slowly and probably very incorrectly, followed by a smug smile that makes his ears twitch up.

“Coming right up, sir,” the waiter, George, says, accompanied by a bow. Dean coughs to hide another laugh.

When the waiter is gone Dean sits up straighter and meet’s Castiel’s eyes. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Castiel glances around to make sure no-one is watching them and then reaches over to grab Dean’s hand, resting them together on the table. “You’re doing fine, Dean.”

“I’ve never done this before,” he says, a scared look in his eyes. “What if I accidentally order snails or something?”

“Firstly, this isn’t a French restaurant so I doubt snails will be on the menu, secondly, snails are called _escargot_ , even you know that, and thirdly, you’re getting worried over nothing.” 

Dean’s face softens. “I do that a lot, don’t I? Get worried over nothing.”

“Just try to relax.” Castiel is feeling calmer than he would have expected. He’s never done anything like this before, and there is no denying that the whole atmosphere is intimidating, but he just feels _happy_. Dean seems to have that effect on him.

The waiter returns with a bottle of wine and two new folders, navy blue this time. Dean quickly pulls his hand away and shoves it under the table, clearing his throat and shuffling in his seat. The wine is placed in an ice-bucket in the middle of their table and the menus in front of them. Dean and Castiel open theirs at the same time and Dean groans at the sheer amount of foreign-sounding names. “Can I not just get a cheese burger?” he asks the waiter, George, hopefully.

“I’m sorry sir, cheese burgers are not on our menu. I would recommend the Canard à la Rouennaise; it is the chef’s speciality.”

“What is it?” Dean asks, looking haughtily down at his menu.

“Pressed roast duck with the blood and bone marrow drained and sautéed to form a rich, flavoursome sauce, which is dribbled over the top. It is only eaten by the most elite.”

Dean pales considerably and looks from his menu to the waiter, then over to Cas and then back to the waiter. “Are you serious?” and then to Castiel, “Is he serious?” Castiel shrugs. He has no in-depth knowledge of food. “You can’t be serious. Duck… roast duck dribbled in _blood and bone-marrow_ sauce?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean carefully lays his menu down on the table. “I’ll just have the Delmonico Steak.”

“The Veal Cordon Bleu, please,” Castiel says when George-the-waiter turns to him. It is one of the few dishes he knows the nature of, and considering the fact that the restaurant serves Canard à la Rouennaise, he isn’t ready to take any chances. 

“Your food will be here shortly,” George replies with another bow, and even Castiel, who is fairly unfamiliar with human mannerisms, knows that he is going very over the top, trying to be a waiter like in one of the old movies he watched with Dean once, and if he’s being frank it just looks ridiculous. 

“Blood duck,” Dean says when he’s gone. “Roast duck with a sauce made from its own blood.”

“And bone marrow,” Castiel adds.

Dean shakes his head. “Are we sure that Sammy didn’t send us to a monster restaurant? Is this a monster restaurant? I’m ninety-five per cent sure that no human would eat a duck covered in its own goddamn insides.” 

“I don’t think Sam would have sent us to a monster restaurant,” Castiel frowns.

“Who would actually _order_ that though?” Dean’s face is twisted into a scowl. “I mean who thinks, ‘happy Valentine’s Day, here have a duck covered in blood and bone to show how much I love you’?”

“I understand humans even less than you do,” he replies flatly.

Dean shakes his head and pulls the bottle of wine from the ice-bucket in the centre. “What d’you say we see whether or not I ordered something drinkable?”

Castiel tilts his head as Dean pours them both a glass of richly-coloured red wine. The lights in the building are dim, like artificial candle light, which makes his features look soft and rounded, which is stark in comparison how _sharp_ he can look at times, his jaw all hard, heavy lines and face emotionless in the midst of battle. His freckles stand out, dotted across his nose with a few stray ones leading up to the corner of his left eye, close enough that when he blinks his lashes cover them. His eyes look almost hazel in the dim light, but every now and then he will tilt his head a certain way or blink and they’ll be back to green, shining with all their former glory. 

“What’re you looking at me like that for?” Dean asks, shifting in his chair.

“I’m just looking at you,” Castiel says, not drawing his eyes away.

“Why?”

Castiel smiles and Dean licks his lips, blinking slowly, eyes raking down to Castiel’s mouth. “Because you’re beautiful,” Castiel replies. 

A blush suddenly creeps over Dean’s face and he looks away. “Dudes aren’t beautiful,” he mutters.

“You are,” Castiel says bluntly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, because to him it is. There is the smattering of freckles across his face, every one of which Castiel wants to kiss, to claim as his own, and maybe one day he will. There are his green eyes, bright and interspersed with flecks of gold in the sunlight and darker, only a few shades away from brown, in the shadow. The way that when he smiles – _really_ smiles – it can be seen in his whole body, the curve of his full lips, the way his ears perk up, the loosening of his shoulders. His every personality trait, from the good and brave all the way down to the most twisted. His memories, his past, his present, his possible futures, his weaknesses, his flaws, his perfections, his every element, small and big and right and wrong, all so very much _Dean_ and all so, undeniably, irrevocably _beautiful_. 

His entire face is bright red, which makes Castiel smiles wider. “Stop grinning like the goddamn Cheshire Cat,” he mutters.

“I don’t know who the Cheshire Cat is, but they must be very happy if they’re as happy as I am now.” He doesn’t bother to point out that cats don’t smile, or that he doubts anyone has ever been as happy as he is now, cat or not. 

“I’d say no chick-flick moments, but I’m sitting in a restaurant on Valentine’s Day in a suit with a date waiting for my food, which hopefully isn’t covered in bone marrow, so I _think_ that ship’s sailed.”

Castiel doesn’t reply, instead just blinking at Dean, the smile not leaving his face. “ _Why are you smiling?_ ” Dean asks again.

“Because I’m happy!” he lets out a laugh, his head tipping back as he does so. “I’m _happy_.”

There is a moment’s silence before Dean says quietly, “Fuck, Cas, I really want to kiss you right now.” 

Castiel’s head falls forward, and he meets Dean’s eyes. “I believe that’d be considered improper,” he says, the smile dimming but not leaving his face.

“Screw propriety,” Dean says, pushing his chair out and walking over to Castiel’s side of the table, and, before he can so much as react (not that his reaction would be anything different than to kiss Dean back), grabbing his face in his hands and kissing him. It’s softer and gentler than any of the other ones, their mouths hardly moving at all, their noses bumping together and Dean’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. The only thing Castiel can think is how _nice_ this feels, and he could list a dozen other words that could be used to describe it – soft, perfect, warm – but none of them would be as all-encompassing as _nice_. It just feels so nice and if Castiel could he would stay like this forever, stay kissing Dean forever, but he can’t because then their food arrives and Dean pulls away, breathless despite their lack of lust and red from a mixture of embarrassment and something else that Castiel can’t put his finger on. “Hey, Cas,” he whispers before going back to his seat, “you’re awesome.”

Castiel lays another chaste kiss to his lips, and he can feel Dean’s smile mirroring his own. Dean pulls away and loudly clears his throat, sitting back down opposite Castiel and giving George-the-waiter a bashful glance. Dean looks up at Castiel and then drops his head and mutters something that sounds like, “I’m _so_ gay.”

George-the-waiter doesn’t comment on their kiss, which Castiel supposes is part of his job. “Here is your Delmonico Steak, sir,” he says, placing Dean’s dish down in front of him, “and your Veal Cordon Bleu, sir.” 

Dean gives him a two-fingered salute. “Thanks, George, you’re a star.” 

George bows again and walks away, and Dean turns to Castiel with raised eyebrows. “Seriously, the stick up his ass is even worse than yours, and you’ve got a pretty damn massive stick up your ass.” Dean suddenly turns bright red and starts to cut his steak with more vigour than is probably necessary. Castiel frowns, but doesn’t press the topic. He doesn’t understand Dean, and this doesn’t seem like one of those times where it’s important to work him out. 

“Have you tasted the wine yet?” Dean asks, just as the silence is beginning to become awkward.  

“No.”

“Well go on, I want to make sure it doesn’t taste like donkey piss,” Dean eyes his glass warily, and Castiel thinks it probably tastes fine, he is just scared by the long, complicated French name which neither of them have much hope of remembering, let along pronouncing. 

“I don’t know what donkey piss tastes like, so I wouldn’t know either way.”

Dean blinks. “Were you trying to make a joke?” When Castiel doesn’t reply, a grin materialises on his face. “You were making a joke.” Castiel glares. “I tell you what, we’ll work on your ability to be funny some other time. Right now I want you to drink your _Fuzzy Uncle de Lollo Rozzo_ or whatever to make sure it’s safe.”

“I don’t think it called _Fuzzy Uncle de Lollo Rozzo_ ,” Castiel replies, but picks up his glass and takes a sip anyway. The bubbles hit his tongue, followed by a sharp, rich flavour that isn’t altogether unpleasant. “It’s good,” Castiel says, not that he has anything to compare it to. 

“It’s girl drink that’s what it is,” Dean mumbles, and downs his glass in one, which Castiel thinks is probably more down to habit than anything. 

They spend the first five minutes eating in relative silence, until Castiel speaks up. “How do you think they make the carrots into little star shapes?” he holds up his fork, on the end of which is a piece of carrot shaped like a star with ten points, contemplating it as Dean splutters on the sip of wine he just took.

“What?”

“The carrots,” Castiel shows him his fork. “They’re shaped like stars.” 

“And that’s important _why_ exactly?” Dean is eyeing the slice of carrot with a look of discontent.

“It’s not important, it’s merely interesting,” Castiel shoves the piece of star-carrot into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before saying, “and yet it adds nothing to the taste. Why put in the extra effort of cutting it into an unnatural shape when it tastes exactly the same?”

“Because people like pretty things,” Dean says in between mouthfuls of food, not really looking up at Castiel. 

“But _why_ when it doesn’t add to the thing itself, it just makes it more complicated than it needs to be.”

Dean does look up at him now. “You’re asking one of the oldest questions there is, Cas. We’re people,” he shrugs. “People like to make things bigger and better and shinier, mainly just ‘cause they can.”

Castiel frowns and thinks about that for a moment. It’s true, as he already knew, that humans will overembellish things to the point that their base function is lost, cars becoming not a mode of transportation but a sign of who has the most money, houses becoming so full of décor and impractical architecture that their use as a living-space is lost. And carrot apparently being cut into little stars, even though it actually takes away from the size of the food. Before letting the topic drop he says: “I think it’s wonderful. Heaven never did things just for the sake of it,” and then quietly, after a long pause, “I think I prefer humanity.” 

Dean is silent for a moment. “You don’t mean that.”

Castiel meets his eyes across the table. “I really think I do,” and as he says the words he realises that he means them, and that if he was given the chance to go back to being an angel, emotionless and unquestioning of his orders, then he would decline. There are so many things he misses – flying, the simple existence of his wings, the surety, the lack of fear, the simple, unbridled _power_ – but none of those things trump _this_ , this constant feeling and growing and changing and _living_ , and receiving love and giving it in return and never knowing what to do next and so stepping blindly into the dark and hoping you don’t go tumbling off a cliff. One lifetime of this, this _being alive_ – because as an angel he never really lived, both metaphorically and literally – would override any number of millennia that he could have, should have, would have had if not for Dean. He will live and he will die, and he won’t get to see the next coming of Christ or the fall of modern America or the invention of time travel or any other unexpected or not-so-unexpected things the world might spit out, and he is mortal and vulnerable, but _living_. 

Dean stares at him for a moment longer, and Castiel can’t read his expression at all. “Okay,” he says, licking his lips. “Okay.” 

Dean turns back to his food. It doesn’t take long for the silence to become awkward, and then Dean slams his cutlery down on his plate. “This isn’t working,” he says around a mouthful of vegetable.

“What isn’t?”

“This,” he gestures around him. “This date.”

A lump appears in Castiel’s throat, and he suddenly feels cold. “Oh,” he says. 

Dean’s eyes land on him. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean it like that, Cas.”

“Then how _did_ you mean it?” Castiel doesn’t intend for his voice to sound as venomous as it does. 

“I just mean that this isn’t _us_ , you know? Not because of how we live but just because this whole thing – going to a fancy restaurant for dinner – isn’t us, isn’t you and me.”

“I think it could be us if we let it, because the only thing that would stop it from working would be us.”

“But this isn’t…” Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “This isn’t how I usually do relationships. I’ve never had a relationship like this. I’ve never _wanted_ a relationship like this. It’s usually just always touch and go, get in for the sex and then leave because no-one expects anything more.”

“And you’re scared,” it isn’t a question.

“No!” At a disbelieving glance from Castiel, Dean’s shoulders deflate. “Okay, yeah, yeah I am. I’m fucking _terrified_.”

“Honestly?” Castiel glances out the window. “I am as well.”

Dean gives him a small smile and leans back in his chair. “Another thing we’re facing together then?” 

“Of course.”

And that is the extent of their heavy conversation. The rest of the meal passes making small-talk that isn’t really small-talk and with many smiles and a bit of hand-holding and Dean once laughing relentlessly as George-the-waiter trips over. All in all, it’s everything Castiel could have wanted a date to be, and during those days when he was just wishing for _someone_ to share something like this with him, he hadn’t allowed himself to believe it might be Dean. He had wanted it to be, but he hadn’t allowed himself to explore that possibility because of how farfetched it had seemed. He’d be lying if he were to say he was _subtle_ about the way he felt – the way he _feels_ – for Dean, because there were times when he made it so obvious that even _Dean_ couldn’t deny it, and most of those times had ended less-than-desirably, but now all that is in the past and he _is_ here with him. 

Dean constantly wavers between uncomfortable and hating the number of people around him and not caring in the least what they might think. He will hold Castiel’s hand and then when he thinks he sees someone looking pull away and be silent for a long moment afterwards. They finish their dinner – which really didn’t taste like anything special, Castiel thinks he would have much preferred a cheese burger – and Dean pays, only momentarily balking at the price before remembering that Sam said they could pay using his credit-card (which if one is being technical, isn’t actually _his_ ).  

Dean hesitates for a moment, eyes scanning over the other restaurant patrons before grabbing up Castiel’s hand and holding it as they walk out. Castiel feels a few eyes follow them out the door, and he knows Dean does as well because his posture is stiff and his hand is starting to sweat, but neither of them let go and then they are out on the sidewalk. 

“What time is it?” Castiel asks.

Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and flips open the screen. “Uh, just before ten. Why?”

Castiel tilts his head and looks up at the sky, only a few stars visible behind the clouds and smog. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

Dean sends him a knowing smile. “Don’t want to go back quite yet, hey?” 

“It’s not often it just gets to be you and me, without Sam interrupting. I’d like to use that time while we can.”

“You’re right,” Dean says, and if by some unspoken agreement they start of down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the Impala. “Sammy’s great, but he has no sense of timing.” 

It’s quiet; the only noises being their breathing and their feet hitting the ground, the slap of pavement eventually turning to the crunch of snow as they enter a park. Dean suddenly stops and sits down on a bench, pulling Castiel down after him. He’s still for a moment before leaning his head forward, resting his forehead against Castiel’s cheek. “I missed you, you know?” he says quietly, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hand.

Castiel frowns. “What?”

“When I screwed things up and we weren’t talking. I missed you. I kept wanting to say sorry, but I didn’t know how and…” he pulls back enough to look Castiel in the eyes. “I never want that to happen again, okay? Don’t let me do that to you again. I don’t think,” his voice cracks, “I don’t think I could do it another time. It’s stupid, because I’m the one who made it happen in the first place, and fuck I’m sorry, but I don’t think I could do that, feel that… that _hurt_ again without it completely screwing up my head.” 

Castiel feels a mixture of guilt and regret and anger, the last of which is more a memory than a current sensation. “I’m sorry, too.” He drops his head. “It was as much my fault as it was yours.”

“That’s bullshit, Cas, and you know it.”

“No, I… I pushed things when neither of us were ready.”

“I don’t think you were pushing anything,” Dean says. “I think you were just trying to get something to happen because, fuck Cas, I’ve been thinking about kissing you since December and like Sam said, we’ve been trying to write something off as a whole lot of nothing for ages.” 

“You were scared, I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” 

“Stop saying sorry. You’ve got nothing to be _sorry_ about. If we stopped something every time I was scared, then we would never have gotten anywhere, not just with this but with _everything_.” Dean presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips before pulling away again. “I don’t think I’m ever going to stop being scared, so I think we’re just gonna have to live with that.” 

Castiel looks back down at the ground and their feet, where Dean’s ankle is absently hooked around his own. “What you said this morning about not being able to lose me, I want you to know that that’s one fear that’s unnecessary.” 

“But is it, really?” A wide-eyed, wild look appears in Dean’s eyes, and Castiel can see his fear and the memories running through his head. “I never thought I’d lose my mom, and I can bet you she never thought she was gonna die. I never thought I’d lose my dad and he promised me that he wasn’t gonna let anything get him. I didn’t think I’d lose Sammy except I did, and then even when I had him back I nearly lost him again. Don’t make me that promise, Cas. That’s one promise that you can’t keep. Even if you say you won’t leave me, one day you might, even if you don’t want to. Hell, whatever happens, sooner or later one of us are gonna be dead and the other won’t be, and with a life like ours it’s probably gonna be sooner.” 

Castiel reaches up and cups Dean’s face with both of his hands. “ _Don’t_ say that,” he growls. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think that, Dean, because it doesn’t have to be for a long time yet. That’s like stomping on a seedling because one day the tree will wither, there’s all that life in between that’s wasted.” He leans their foreheads together. “ _Don’t_ say that.” 

Dean sighs, his breath tickling Castiel’s face, a warm contrast to the icy night air. “I really like you, Cas,” he whispers. “Like, _really_ , _really_ like you, in a way that probably won’t go away.”

Castiel knows that the words Dean is trying to say are _I love you_ , but he again refrains from replying as such because they aren’t ready. Like everything of theirs, this is building slowly, full of uncertainty and newness, and if there’s one thing Castiel has learnt it’s that they can’t rush. If either of them tries to rush then they will end up doing something or saying something they regret. Fear is a strange thing, it takes you in and clams you as its own and the only way to vanquish it, and even then it is only temporary, is to face it head on, letting it consume you until it becomes too large and sinks in on itself, ceasing to be. Love, as it happens, is exactly the same, especially when it and fear go hand in hand. They rise together, but do not sink as one. As love grows, as does the fear, but when the latter drops the love still remains, filling the empty spaces the fear left behind.

“What’re you thinking?” Dean asks, pulling away a tiny amount, but they are still so close that features are blurred and eyes can’t focus, and so all Castiel sees is bright green. He thinks that Dean looks even more beautiful like this, so close that Castiel can barely see him and completely at ease, than he does anywhere else. 

“I’m thinking about love and fear and how similar they are. Really, without one we wouldn’t have the other.”

“I don’t think we’d have anything without anything,” Dean says, and then, apparently realising that what he said doesn’t make any sense, “I mean without one emotion we wouldn’t have any of the other emotions, because you don’t know what the feeling feels like unless you’ve felt how bad things can get. And –”

“Even the bad emotions are good,” Castiel finishes for him, “because without them you wouldn’t have the good ones.” 

“Yeah, that,” Dean grunts, and then kisses Castiel. “This is one of the good ones though.”

“This is one of the _best_ ,” Castiel agrees, his lips touching Dean’s as he speaks. 

It is the very best. It is the ultimate feeling, trumping all the others; full of lips and rough stubble and heavy, sighing breaths. Castiel is going to grab onto this feeling, hold it tight and make sure he doesn’t ever let it go. He is going to make sure that him and Dean share this for as long as they possibly can, and he isn’t going to think about the future and what may and will happen, because there is the time between then and now, and they can fill it with this feeling, and try their best to let it overcome the fear but not really minding either way. He is going to cherish this feeling, remember it throughout the bad and use it as his guiding light and always hold onto the unshakable notion that when it comes down to it, this was worth falling for. 

He thanks God (in the most literal way possible) that he was given this chance. It was meant to be a punishment – and for a long time it was – but now they’ve turned that all around and despite the lingering hurt it is _worth it_. He and Dean are broken and scared and shattered and struggling to find their footing, but they are together and really, at the end of the day when they have nothing left except each other, when the world has stopped turning and their every light is gradually going out, that is _more_ than enough. 


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

These are the kind of hunts Dean likes; simple and with no complications or nearly-dying. All in all, he’s feeling pretty good about himself because that’s one vampire nest dead, two pretty girls who he would probably, maybe, definitely have had sex with if not for the fact him and Cas seem to have a serious, possibly-permanent thing going on and yet another sleepy, Midwest town saved from some evil sons of bitches. The corpses are burnt, Sam’s escorting the victims to hospital in a taxi, because he needs to ‘make sure they’ll be alright’ (if you exclude the lifetime of therapy they’re gonna need then they’ll be fine) and so now it’s just him and Cas and half a dozen burning monsters. 

“Good job in there tonight,” Dean says, leaning back against the Impala. Cas had been badass, and between the three of them the nest had been dead in under ten minutes, which has to be a record. 

Cas smiles and leans back next to him. “Thank you.” 

“Hey, don’t sound so proud of yourself,” Dean teases, nudging his shoulder with his own.

A flirtatious smile appears of Cas’ face, and Dean had never thought that the words ‘Cas,’ ‘smile’ and ‘flirtatious’ would be used in the same sentence, but here he is. “What?” Dean asks. When Cas doesn’t answer and just smiles wider, Dean nudges him again. “What, what am I missing?” 

“Unless I am mistaken,” Cas says, and then he’s somehow right in Dean’s personal space (not that he has any protests), “I would say that _you_ are proud of me.”

“Nah,” but he doubts he sounds very convincing because hell, he _is_ damn proud of Cas and also Cas’ face is hovering inches from his own, which is cheating. 

“Of course,” Cas replies, his voice all gravelly, and it makes Dean’s spine tingle. He’d be lying if he said that Cas doesn’t have a _really_ nice voice; all low and husky and fucking _sexy_.

“Shut up,” Dean says, grabbing the front of his jacket and closing the space between them. Cas doesn’t fight back (not that Dean was expecting him to) and there is nothing soft or gentle about their kiss.

Since that first time, after the event Dean isn’t going to think about right now because he’s busy making out with Cas, all their kisses have been slow or short, and yeah, there have been some pretty passionate ones there, it’s a different kind of passion to _this_. This is more like that first one, messy and needy, but unlike then there is no panic lacing the edges of it.

Cas grabs the front of Dean’s jacket, mirroring him, and pushes him back harder against the car, pulling his mouth away to press a single kiss to the base of Dean’s jaw before returning to his mouth. Dean isn’t submissive, because he’s a _man_ , but he lets Cas guide him, card his tongue over Dean’s teeth and the roof of his mouth, press it against his own and tilt their heads the right way, finding the right angles and pulling away for breath when he needs to. Castiel severs the contact for a second then lays kisses down Dean’s jaw until he reaches his neck. Dean’s hands find their way into his hair, and he has to hold back a moan as Cas laps at a spot on Dean’s neck, just above his collar bone that he shouldn’t know makes Dean react like this _goddamnit_.    

“We should…” Dean gasps, but then forgets what they ‘should do’ because Cas nips lightly at his skin, sliding his tongue over it to cool the slight burn. 

“Yes?” Cas asks, and he has no right to sound that _together_ when Dean is falling apart because _fuck_ Cas can do some things with his tongue. 

“We should…” Dean begins, and then Cas is kissing his mouth again, and between sloppy, open mouthed kisses Dean manages to choke out, “We should… definitely… ugh… definitely keep doing this.”

“That’s not what you were going to say,” Cas says, hooking one of his thumbs through the belt-loop of Dean’s jeans and pulling his hips forward in a way that is so intentional and no-nonsense that Dean gasps. Or maybe moans. He isn’t really sure.

“No. No but I think… that this… is a better… a better idea than… anything else right now.” 

The air is cold against Dean’s face, but he can hardly feel it because there is Cas’ warm breath puffing against his cheeks, and his hand sliding up his back and his hips pressing against Dean’s. If there was ever any doubt that Cas can now feel sensations that are _very much human_ then it’s gone in a heartbeat when Dean feels his arousal pressing against his waist, heavy and warm even through both of their jeans.

“ _Cas_ ,” he stutters out, and a part of his brain tells him that this isn’t a good idea because they’re outside and it’s cold and their first time should be special, but then there are hips rolling against his and a hand carding through his hair. 

Fingertips press against the hard lines of his hips, just above the waist of his jeans, stroking in short, jagged lines and then wide, arching circles, fingernails scraping at skin and warm flesh meeting warm flesh. Their mouths still press together, Castiel’s stubble rubbing at Dean’s cheek and then his chin and then the underside of his jaw. Tongues dance together, their rhythm irregular and messy. 

Dean’s hands reach behind him, searching for the doorhandle of the Impala and then they are falling as one into the back seat, a scrabble of limbs and hurried kisses. Castiel is grinding down on Dean, and he goes to speak but finds his throat dry and hoarse, the only moisture coming from Castiel’s messy kisses. “Are… are you sure,” he breathes, even as he speak his hips thrusting upwards to meet Cas’. 

A part of him is proud when Cas lets out a grating moan and pushes back, because it’s good to know he’s not the only one losing his self-control here. “If I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t be doing this, would I?” 

Dean means to reply with something cutting and witty, but the words are lost when Cas pushes up his shirt and lays warm, open-mouthed kisses to his stomach, gradually working his way up. Dean’s hands find Castiel’s hips in the dark, sliding down to grip at the rounded cheeks of Castiel’s ass, pulling him down and grinding their hips together, languid and slow, the polar opposite from the rest of their movements. Castiel’s back arches as he moves up Dean’s chest, his tongue darting out to swipe at one of his nipples, and Dean makes a noise that if anyone mentioned, he would blatantly deny because Dean Winchester does not _whine_. 

He clutches at Cas’ denim clad hips, running his hands from the top down, in unhurried curves to the top of his thighs, hands grasping tighter at random intervals, pressing their hips together harder and pulling back, the drag of their bodies uneven and stuttered. Teeth gently scrape against Dean’s chest, moving to the left and pressing a kiss to a jagged scar above his heart, then back to the right, lips grazing over his anti-possession tattoo. 

“ _Cas_ ,” he whispers, and then lips are on his, even after this short time more familiar than any others Dean has felt. He knows their roughness, their fullness, the way they move and kiss and claim him as their own. In time he will come to know all of Cas just as well, and he will map his body using gentle touches and urgent hands and wandering lips. But this time now is not for that. It is too urgent, too wanton, the end-game in sight and clear to them both.

Hips push together, finally finding a rhythm that works, Cas’ legs moving up to straddle Dean’s waist in the cramped back-seat of the car. Their kisses never cease but move from lips to jaw to neck to chest and back again, warm breath trailing against Dean’s skin and teeth and tongue leaving angry, red marks behind. Lust is bubbling up in Dean’s stomach, a wave building gradually, closer and closer to reaching its crest with each stutter of hips and press of tongues. 

Dean is moaning Cas’ name, driving his hips forward, ready and wanting when his phone rings. The first bars of _Back in Black_ ring out and Cas is pulling backwards, a look on his face that would probably make sense if Dean weren’t exploding with need. “You should get that,” he says gratingly, meeting Dean’s eyes.

Dean groans and shuffles so that he can reach into his pocket and pull his phone out, blinking at the display before his eyes focus and he can read it. “It’s Bobby,” he huffs, pressing the button the answer it. “This better be damn important,” he growls in way of a greeting, his voice sounding husky even to his own ears. 

“ _Hello to you too_ ,” he grumbles. “ _I think I found you boys a case in_ –,” Dean shifts to sit up, his hips sliding across Cas’ as he does, barely holding back a moan. Bobby pauses. “ _Are you_ with someone?” 

“No,” Dean says quickly.

“ _Like hell you’re not. I tried to get a hold of Sam but he wasn’t picking up._ ” 

“Yeah, he’s taking some vamp victims to the hospital. Me and Cas stayed behind to,” he realises his mistake too late, and scrambles to smooth it out, “to, uh, burn the bodies. And stuff.” He winces at how unconvincing that sounded. 

Bobby is silent for a moment, and then lets out a snort. “ _Well it took you boys long enough_.”

Dean blinks in surprise. “What?”

“ _You and Cas. You’ve been makin’ puppy eyes at each other for months._ ” A pause. “ _I’m happy for you_.”

Dean glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye and then has to look away because his face is red and his lips swollen and his hair mussed in the way that can only be caused by someone else’s hands running repeatedly through it. “Uh, thanks?” Dean says, his voice several octaves too high, and so he clears his throat and tries again. “Thanks, Bobby, that, uh, that means a lot.”

“ _You two are good for each other. Don’t screw it up_.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? I’m glad I’ve got your tick of approval,” he replies sharply. 

“ _Hey, don’t you use that tone with me. I don’t give a crap about your love live as long as you’re happy, and I can see that he makes you happy, so do us all a favour and don’t be a dumbass about it_.” 

“Sorry. Sorry, Bobby. I shouldn’t have… I’m just sick of everyone assuming I’m gonna fuck everything up,” he thinks for a moment. “Which I probably am.”

“ _Well, boohoo for you, princess. Stop feelin’ sorry for yourself, Dean. From what I can see, you’ve got everything you wanted so stop snivelling and makin’ up worst-case-scenarios in your head. I would’ve thought you’d have learnt by now that that never got anyone anywhere.”_

He hadn’t really thought about how Bobby would react when he found out about him and Cas, but he would have guessed there would be at least a bit of surprise and maybe hesitance to accept it, but here Bobby is talking about him and Cas like it’s old news and reprimanding Dean for being an idiot, which there is no denying he is. “So, this case you found?” he says, changing the topic, because he really doesn’t feel like discussing his relationship problems with _Bobby_. 

“ _Where about’s are you boys?_ ”

“Iowa, in Creston, a few miles from the Missouri border.”

“ _Like I thought. I’ve think I’ve found some witch-activity in Manhattan, and you’re the closest hunters I know.”_

“We’re at least two days drive away from New York,” Dean frowns. 

“ _Manhattan, Kansas, not Manhattan, New York_ ,” Bobby says, and Dean can practically hear the eye-roll. “ _Three people, all from the same graduating class, have died in ways that are_ off.”

“What d’you mean by _off_?” 

“ _Well one girl had her face ripped off by a college text book of that’s off enough for ya.”_

Yeah okay, so that is pretty off. “Awesome,” Dean says. “Witches. I _love_ witches.” 

“ _Stop whining. You gonna take it?_ ”

“S’pose we kinda have to,” Dean runs a hand over his face.

“ _I’ll email Sam with the research.”_ Bobby is quiet for a moment. “ _Say hello to Cas for me_. _I’ll let you get back to… whatever it is you were doing._ ” 

“Yeah, okay,” he says awkwardly. “See ya, Bobby.” Bobby hangs up without saying goodbye, which Dean guesses is probably his own quiet payback for Dean not saying hello. It’s not his fault, he was occupied with other things at the time, read: having almost-sex with Cas.

Dean shoves his phone back in his pocket and looks over to Cas, thinking for a moment about getting back to ‘whatever it is they were doing,’ but can’t really find the desire. “The moment’s gone?” Dean asks, smoothing down his shirt.

“The moment’s gone,” Cas agrees, kissing him once before getting up out of the car and holding the door open for Dean. 

Dean rubs his neck, feeling the tender bruises that are going to still be there tomorrow. And maybe the next day. And maybe the day after that. “I don’t usually let people give me hickeys.”

“Sorry,” Cas says, not meeting his eyes. “I got… carried away.”

Dean smirks and on an impulse smacks him on the ass before sliding into the driver’s seat. “You’re not people though, are you?”  

Cas grabs his right hand, the one not on the steering wheel. “No, I’m not.” 

Dean squeezes his hand as he starts up the engine, not being able to help but remember how ten minutes ago that hand had been all over him, fingernails pressing half-moon shapes into his hips and running in long lines down his chest and up his thighs. He coughs and pushes the image away, because he is still hard – almost painfully so – and although the mutual lust is gone, he’s still gonna have to have a very, very cold shower when they get back to the motel. 

“You’re just Cas,” he agrees. “Just Cas.” 

And they drive off into the night, one vampire nest dead, two girls who when he thinks about it he really never would have sex with, because they’re not _Cas,_ saved, one quite-new experience – involving more than one dick and quite a bit of grinding – under his belt (heh) and one hand in his, and he feels pretty damn awesome about everything. 

***

Just because Dean has a whatever-the-fuck-Cas-is, doesn’t mean he can’t go get drunk every once in a while and appreciate the local women. Originally, he was sent to the bar to do some ‘research,’ but he’s pretty sure they all knew that that wasn’t going to happen. Besides, he needs to check out some women just to reinforce the fact that he _isn’t_ gay and make sure that he still appreciates boobs (which he does) and that he is simply Cas-sexual and has no desire to engage in large amounts of kissing and/or other less-than-heterosexual activities with Generic Bar-Dude #8. 

Dean’s already got a fair amount of alcohol in him – not enough to be drunk, but enough that he’s a bit tipsy – when the first girl decides she wants to flirt with him. Really, he’s surprised it took this long, and that’s not arrogance, it’s just fact. “Hi,” she says, leaning back against the bar. 

Dean can’t help but check her out. He has to admit, she’s pretty damn fine; busty and thin with dark hair and piercing blue eyes that for a moment remind him of Cas’, but then when he thinks about it he realises it’s like comparing a bit of blue craft paper and the ocean. “Hey,” he replies, and just because he’s taken doesn’t mean he can’t flirt a bit. 

“I’m Taria,” she says, and for the first time Dean realises she has an accent.

“You’re not from around these parts,” he says, and she smiles, clearly recognising the reference. 

“I’m from Wales,” and then with a flirty smile, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Dean,” he answers, reaching out and shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you, Taria.”

She pulls out a stool next to him and then leans forward, her breath tickling his ear. “I don’t want to be overly hasty here,” she whispers, “but I have a room at the motel back on 5th, and you were looking lonely, and I sure am lonely, so what do you say we do something about that?” 

He pulls back and gives her a warm smile that is still maybe just a little bit flirtatious. “Sorry, but I’m a taken man.”

She smiles, but it’s more hesitant now. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“I couldn’t do that to Cas.”

She’s silent for a moment. “Cas short for Cassandra, then?”

Dean nearly chokes on his beer. “Uh, yeah, something like that.” He can’t wait to tell Cas and Sam about this later. It just proves that Cas is the girl.  

“Your girlfriend?”

“Not quite,” he leans back in his seat, thinking that he might have to leave this next bit out of his retelling. 

She blinks. “Wife?” she sounds surprised and Dean guesses that he doesn’t really give off ‘settled-down’ vibes, which would be correct.

He snorts at the sudden image of Cas in a wedding dress. “Try again.”

“Fiancée?” When he shakes his head she gives him a baffled look. “Mistress?” 

He almost chokes again, and isn’t sure where the next words come from. It could be down to his blood/alcohol level, or just the sudden, spontaneous itch in the back of his skull, but he takes a sip from his beer and says, “No, no Cas is my boyfriend.” 

The words scare him as soon as they’re out of his mouth, because he doesn’t do _titles_. After high-school he never even had _girlfriends_ and now here he is proclaiming his big, gay love for Castiel to the whole world. Or, well, one person, but by his standards that kind of counts as the whole world because he wasn’t going to tell people, damnit. He’s never even _thought_ about Cas as his boyfriend before, because it makes him feel like a teenage girl, except now that he’s said it, he knows the thought isn’t going to go away and it’s going to eat at him and bring on a whole new wave of terror, drowning him until Cas pulls him back up. 

Her eyes widen and she leans back in her chair. “You’re a _faggot_?”

Dean reels at the word. “I don’t – I don’t swing that way,” his voice sounds weak and pathetic and not at all like his. He feels a panic rise up inside him, coupled with a hurt that he knows he shouldn’t be feeling and fear, and he suddenly wishes he were anywhere but here, and that he had just told her that Cas was short for Cassie and that he was perfectly, _painfully_ heterosexual. 

“You said you have a boyfriend,” her lips are curled in disgust, and she doesn’t look even remotely pretty anymore, “that makes you gay. I can’t believe I wanted to _sleep_ with you.” 

Dean’s never felt anything like this before. Sure, there have been a fair share of people who have judged him because of his southern accent and the fact he wears plaid and a leather jacket and most of the time looks like he just finished rolling around in the dirt (which he often has, monster hunting is hardly a clean profession), but nothing like _this_. If you’d have asked him, he would have told you that being called a ‘faggot’ would just be like water off a ducks back, because it’s just a word and it doesn’t even apply to him, and if that was before Cas he probably just would have been pissed, not _pissed_ _and hurt_. He never really thought about the fact that people still have things against dudes being with other dudes. Like, _really_ have things against it, to the point if it was permitted they would host public gay-burnings. 

He guesses it just never registered that everyone wouldn’t be as happy about him and Cas as Sam was, and Bobby, and that they might get more than inquisitive looks when they hold hands or kiss in public. It makes him angry. _Fuck_ it makes him angry, because why shouldn’t he be able to do everything with Cas that he’d be able to do if Cas was a girl. Before he really knows what he’s doing he’s standing up and towering over Taria.

“Don’t you say those things to me,” he hisses, and she takes a step backwards, her eyes wide and scared.

A silence gradually falls over the bar, eyes turning in their direction, and the better part of Dean, the one that actually has some common sense, is telling him to sit back down, or simply leave, but he _can’t_. He’s angry, and people should know better than to make Dean Winchester angry. Suddenly another person is standing up. They have the same eyes as Taria, cold and ugly and Dean can’t believe he even _compared_ them to Cas’. He guesses it must be her brother. “Hey, you step away from her,” he says, and just as Dean thought, his voice is also heavily accented.

Dean’s blood is boiling, and with every second the ire grows, getting stronger and stronger until somehow he’s pushing Taria’s brother, and then his fist is flying and Dean is ducking and half a dozen other people are standing up surrounding him. 

“Keith, don’t cause a scene,” Taria says, and Dean quietly remarks on how even the name _Keith_ sounds dickish. 

“Oh, no, please do,” Dean says, a smirk on his face and the sudden urge to punch every single one of these sons of bitches in the face growing stronger with each passing second. 

“My pleasure,” and then he’s swinging for Dean again, except Dean ducks and punches him in the stomach, making him double over and grunt. Apparently the rest of the bar patrons know Keith-the-asshole because they’re swarming him, and there are only so many drunken, angry, bigoted _dicks_ that he can take at once. Someone kicks him in the gut, causing him to stumble backwards, and then a fist hits his face, and he tastes blood.

He pulls out his phone and presses the speed-dial for Sam. “ _Dean_?” he asks, picking up almost straight away.

“Hey, Sammy,” he tries to sound upbeat, but it’s hard when he’s dodging punches and dealing a fair few himself. “You busy?”

“ _No not really I’m just_ –” he pauses. “ _Are you in a fight?”_

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock. Could you come get me?” Being the Good Samaritan he is, he had let Cas and Sam take the Impala so they could drive to the council building and look in the archives, agreeing that he’d ring them when he was too drunk to do anything. 

“ _Dean, what did you_ –” and then his phone is knocked out of his hands and is being crushed under someone’s boots. 

Not much talking is done after that; it’s all punching and trying not to get punched, breaking a good few noses and once again thanking the fact that he was raised knowing how to fist-fight. The fact that these are _humans_ makes everything so much worse, because humans are supposed to be the good-guys, the ones he _doesn’t_ punch and who don’t try to kill him. There is a cut above his eyebrow, and he’s going to have his fair share of bruises when this is all over, assuming that someone doesn’t smash a beer bottle and stab him before Sam and Cas can get here. 

The whole thing is stupid; he should have just let the insult slide and walked away, or told Taria he wasn’t interested, instead of starting a goddamn bar-brawl. He should have known better than to be so _open_ about him and Cas, because they’re in Kansas for fucks sake, in a town that is gonna still be living with their heads in the 1960’s. 

“God hates ya, ya know that,” a man drawls, his country accent thick. 

“Trust me, buddy, I worked that out a long time ago,” Dean ducks his punch, but there’s only so long he can do this for. He’s gradually getting backed into the corner, because it’s about eight against one, as good of a fighter as that one may be. 

“Why’d you come to Manhattan?” Keith asks, and despite himself Dean is momentarily surprised that he doesn’t sound like a goddamn hillbilly like the rest of the bar patrons. “Why’d you come flaunting yourself around when you aren’t welcome here?”

“This won’t make a lick of sense to you, but I’m actually here to save your lives,” Dean says in between flooring a guy in a baseball cap and dodging a blow from another guy in a baseball cap. A part of his brain remarks how Bobby would make a perfect undercover not-a-dickbag here.   

“You’re right, that doesn’t make sense,” Keith says, riling himself up for another punch. 

While Dean is dodging him, he doesn’t notice the person behind him until he’s being hit across the back of the head with a heavy fist and falling to the ground. Another fist hits his face and his tooth goes through his lip and he tastes blood. “Let this be a lesson,” Baseball-Cap Dude No.4 says, “that we don’t want your kind around here.”

“My kind?” Dean smiles through the blood. “What _decent people_?” 

A boot hits him in the stomach and he gasps, trying to get air into his lungs, but only being able to take shallow breaths without it being agonisingly… _agonising._ “Don’t a smart ass,” the same guy (or maybe it’s a different one, they’re all sort of blurring together) says, hitting him across the side of the head again. Dean absently wonders if anyone’s called the police, or if no-one cares enough to. 

“Sweetheart, smart ass is my main personality trait.” Dean knows he should shut up, because he’s just making them angrier, but he _can’t_ because this isn’t right, and he’s pissed off and his head feels all foggy. 

One of the guys without a baseball cap grunts something and then they’re punching him again, and then when he can’t stay upright and falls to the floor, arms instinctually going up to cover his face, fists turn to feet. He feels something stinging his eyes and it’s not for a few moments that he realises they’re _tears_. He’s crying, and he isn’t even really sure why, because he’s taken worse beatings than this and by Winchester standards this is like stepping on a nettle. Maybe it’s the principle behind the thing; the fact that they’re not going down on him (and not in the sexy way) because he’s trying to kill them, or because they’re evil, supernatural sons of bitches, but just because they think he’s a _sinner_ or whatever. He guesses that he and Sam are probably the only people on earth who have a legitimate reason to believe God hates them, because the dick tried to kill them, and really, he couldn’t care less what the son of a bitch thinks.  

Then the door of the bar is bursting open and Sam is shouting. “Hey, get away from him!” 

“You the boyfriend?” one of them snarls.

“Brother, actually,” and Dean has never loved that stupid, annoying bitch-face as much as he does now. 

Through the throngs of denim clad legs, he sees another figure, wearing a blue sweater and a trench-coat and the most murderous look Dean has ever seen on his face. “ _Don’t you touch him_ ,” he snarls, and maybe it’s just Dean’s imagination, or maybe it’s just the thunder in his voice, or maybe he’s pulling up the last dregs of angel-mojo, but the room seems to darken and crackle with electricity. 

The men must feel it too, because they don’t reply, exchanging nervous glances and stepping further away from the doorway. “Who started this?” Cas asks.

“Your little cock-sucking boyfriend.”

Cas grabs the person in question by the front of their shirt and shoves them at the wall. “I’ll ask again, _who started this_?” 

He swallows and glances from Cas over to Keith, and both Castiel and Sam’s eyes move with him. Castiel drops the man before walking over to Keith, and despite the fact that he’s a good foot shorter, towers over him. “You should know better than to hurt Dean Winchester,” he growls, “because there are people who love him and they will always, _always_ get you back.” Castiel punches him and he falls to the floor, unconscious, and Dean feels a rush of a billion emotions he can’t name rising up inside him.

“Cas,” he chokes, spitting out blood. 

Cas rushes over and gently pulls him up, resting his head in his lap. “You stupid, stupid, _brave_ man,” he says. “What were you thinking?”

“Not sure if I was,” he tries to smile but it turns into a wince as the force burns at his split lip. Tears still sting his eyes, and he thinks he might let out a sob and reach up and grab Cas’ hand, but he isn’t too sure of anything at the moment.  

Cas lets out a shaky breath and leans down, laying a kiss to his bloodied forehead. “You are the most self-destructive person I’ve ever met.” There’s a pause, and Dean feels the fog over his mind getting thicker and thicker, and the last thing he hears before he slips into unconsciousness is, “I love you.” 


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

Dean’s everything hurts; his head, his body, his sense of self-worth… all of it aches and for a moment he can’t even remember why. Then it all comes rushing back, the stupid bar-brawl that he started, lots of punching and kicking and blood, and then Sam and Cas appearing at the door and then a whole lot of nothing. 

“Cas?” he grates, forcing his eyes open a crack. 

“Dean?” there are footsteps and a face hovering over him that is most certainly not Cas. There is too much fringe and not enough stubble and hazel eyes instead of blue.

“Sammy, ‘s that you?” He feels stupid asking it as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but Sam sits down on the edge of the bed and grabs his forearm.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. How are you feeling?”

Dean grunts and pushes himself up into a sitting position, shoving Sam away when he tries to push him back down. “Like I just went ten rounds with Bruce Lee, but apart from that, I’m awesome.” 

“How much do you remember? You had quite a hard hit to your head.”

Dean gently touches the back of his skull and winces when he feels a bump. “Yeah, several. I dunno, I remember starting the fight and punching some sons of bitches and then I saw you and Cas and then I think I must have fallen unconscious because there isn’t anything after that.” 

“That’s pretty much it. We arrived and found them kicking you – geez, Dean, for a moment I thought you were _dead_ – and then Cas got all scary – you should have _seen him_ – and punched some people and then went over to you and you were crying –”

“I wasn’t crying,” Dean says indignantly. 

“Yeah, you were. Anyway, Cas held you for a moment and was talking to you and then he picked you up and carried you back to the car.” 

“And no-one tried to stop you?”

“I think they were too scared, because you should have seen the look in his eyes, Dean, it was like…” he shakes his head. “ _I_ was scared.”

Dean can’t keep the tiny smile off his face. “Go, Cas,” he whispers. “Where is he anyway?”

“He went to pick up some fresh supplies for the first-aid kit because we used up most of them on you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You let _Cas_ do the shopping? _Alone_?”

Sam shrugs. “He wanted to help.”

They’re both silent for a moment, before Dean looks at Sam and says, “Wait, so let me get this straight. Those people were scared of _Cas_ and not of me?” 

“Maybe because you’re only human?” 

“So is Cas. Or, well, mostly.” 

Sam shakes his head. “If you’d asked me last night, I would have told you he was still a full angel, it was just… I don’t even know how to _describe_ it. Remind me to never get between you and Cas, because I think for you he would have killed every one of those people if he had needed to.” 

Dean blinks. “Fuck.” Maybe it wasn’t the most articulate sentence (or even a sentence) but he doesn’t know what else to say. It’s not that he didn’t know what lengths Cas would go to for him, because he’s seen it and he tells him all the time, but when they’re _humans_ it’s different, because even though they’re dicks it doesn’t mean they’d deserve to die in Dean’s place. 

“He really loves you,” Sam says. “Like a real sort of love. Like the way dad loved mom or I loved Jess… hell, maybe even _stronger_ than that. Don’t break his heart, Dean.” 

Dean thinks for a moment, about Cas and about him and about all the promises they’ve made and the quiet, whispered conversations full of clasped hands and warm breath. “You know, I don’t think I could if I tried. I think it’d break me more than it’d break him, because I –” _I love him too_. Except he can’t say the words, even to Sam. 

“Just make sure you tell him that,” Sam says, and then stands up. “Will you be okay if I go wash up? I need a shower except I didn’t want to leave you alone in case you got worse.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replies with a dismissive gesture. 

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_ , now go. You smell.” Sam shoots him a bitch-face, but Dean can’t bring himself to glare or call him a bitch or do anything of the like, and instead just lays back down. 

Thus begins the freak-out he knew was going to happen as a result of calling Cas his goddamn _boyfriend_ and almost getting killed as a consequence of it. He hopes Cas gets back soon, because what he really needs now, as much as he hates how true it is, is Cas to just hold him and lie that it’ll be alright. And maybe one day it will be alright, just not any time soon. 

***

“Dean, you’re awake,” the door of the motel room slams shut, there is the rustle and thump of shopping bags being dropped to the floor and then Cas is standing next to the bed, looking torn between hugging Dean and pulling up a chair. 

Dean pushes himself up, patting the bed next to him and gesturing with his head for Cas to sit down. Cas perches awkwardly on the edge, staring at the floor and making a truly valiant effort to do anything but look Dean in the eye. Dean blinks, and his mind instinctually starts analysing everything he remembers, trying to find the spot where he went wrong and offended Cas and messed up their relationship. He can feel himself starting to panic, and has to force himself to calm down because as far as he knows, he didn’t do anything wrong.

“Cas, you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he says, which he evidently is not because he’s the worst liar Dean has ever seen. “How are you feeling?”

“If I get asked that one more time,” Dean tips his head back, laying it against the cool plaster of the wall. “Nah, I’m good. Sore, but I’ll be fine.”

Cas frowns and gives him a confused look. “You’re not…?” he trails off. 

“Not _what_?”

“Over-reacting,” a look of realisation spreads over his face. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember _what_?” And there is the panic again. “Cas, what’s going on?” 

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s fine, Dean. Just… something one of the people said before I carried you out,” Dean can see he’s lying, because again, he has to be the worst liar in the known universe. 

“What was it?” he asks, deciding to play along with the charade. 

“They just…” Cas frowns, and if Dean weren’t already certain he was making something up, he would be now, “said something about us.”

He doesn’t doubt that someone _did_ say something about them, but Cas wouldn’t be reacting like this if that were all there was. “Okay, spit it out.”

“What?” 

“What aren’t you telling me? What happened? What’d I do?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

Dean shakes his head. “Well I obviously did something or you wouldn’t be acting like a shifty Scooby Doo villain.” 

“You didn’t do _anything_ ,” Cas growls.

“If you don’t tell me what happened I’m sleeping in the car tonight and you can share the room with Snorey McSnorer. _Alone_.”

Cas seems to weigh the options for a moment, before turning his head away from Dean, and biting his lip. “It’s best if you don’t remember.”

“Nah uh, I’ll decide that for myself thanks.”

“I told you I…” he hesitates, and glances over at Dean. “I told you that I…” he sends Dean a look, pleading him to understand without the words having to be said and it takes a moment but then Dean _does_. 

“Oh.”

“I know that you’re not ready to hear that, I’m sorry.” 

“No. No, it’s okay, I, uh, I just can’t yet. I’m not ready, I… eventually I’ll get there, but it’s just too big of a step right now, I um, yeah,” he finishes weakly. 

Cas doesn’t reply and the silence quickly turns awkward and heavy. Dean clears his throat, but, if anything, it just makes things worse, and the words he knows Cas said but that he can’t remember are burnt onto the back of his eyelids, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to make them disappear because he just _can’t_.

“I mean it you know,” Cas says quietly after a minute, and Dean opens his eyes, blinking at the sudden change in brightness.

“What?”

“What I said. I… I mean it. I think I have for quite a long time.”

Dean chews on his bottom lip and looks away. “Yeah, yeah me too. For a long time. I don’t think I really knew it, but yeah. Me too.”

Silence falls again, and Dean knows that Cas wants to ask him something, but isn’t going to because he’s worried about Dean’s reaction. Dean’s sick of other people tiptoeing around his feelings like they’re fragile and will smash with the slightest prod. “Maybe one day,” he answers, not needing to hear the question to know what it is.

Cas gives him a confused glance. “Maybe one day, what?”

“Maybe one day I’ll… you know. Be able to say it.” 

“Oh,” Cas’ face is blank. “Don’t rush yourself, I don’t want –”

“Yeah, no, me neither. I won’t.” He pauses. “We both know it though, right?”

“Honestly, Dean, I think that anyone who sees us together knows. I think Sam and Bobby both knew before we did.”

Dean lets out a solemn chuckle. “I think you’re right there.” He kicks off the blankets and stands up before Cas can stop him, only wobbling slightly on his feet before finding his balance. “Well I’m sick of being cooped in here. I need a drive.”

Cas stands up as well, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Are you sure you should be driving? Your head’s injured.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Dean says with what he hopes is a reassuring glance. “I’ve driven with my guts all but falling out; I think I can handle a bump on the head.” 

“You might have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion. Quit acting like my wife.” Dean remembers his conversation with the girl in the bar – Tara, Tanya, Tiara, something starting with ‘t’ – and the lead up to his… his slip of the tongue which had then led to him getting his ribs kicked in. 

Something must show on his face, because Cas frowns. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice higher than it should be. He clears his throat. “Just… nothing, I’m good.” 

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, adopting his ‘stop fucking with me Dean Winchester because angel or not I can punch your lights out and leave you a drooling mess on the floor except I won’t because I kind of really like you’ tone. 

He rolls his eyes, and decides that there really isn’t any harm in relaying _this_ part of the story. “Last night, before the argument started, this chick, Tara or something I think, was hitting on me,” Cas’ eyes darken at that, and Dean finds that he isn’t surprised that Cas is the possessive type. “Hey, I told her I was taken, and that I couldn’t do that to Cas, and she thought Cas was short for Cassandra,” Dean grins. “Proves you’re the girl.” It’s not actually as funny as he thought it’d be when he says it aloud, but that might just be because of the whole nearly-getting-killed-by- _humans_ -of-all-things thing. 

“I’m not a girl,” Cas frowns, and then, “So how _did_ you manage to get close to ten people – most of which were bigger in stature than you, so it was one of the _stupidest_ thing’s I’ve seen you do, and that’s a long list – on your bad side?” 

“Hey, I resent that. I don’t do that many stupid things,” Dean isn’t deflecting; he’s simply… _avoiding the other topic_ because it could bring upon discomfort. 

“Selling your soul,” Cas says flatly.

“That was to save Sam, and I’m pretty sure we’d both do the same again in a heartbeat.”

“Fighting against Heaven’s will when they were the ones who saved you from Hell.”

“Technically, that was you that saved me. I’ve got your hand print seared into my skin to prove it and everything,” he gestures offhandedly to his shoulder. “And you’re not one to talk because you hate them just as much as I do.” 

“Buying that kebab from that street vender when Sam warned you not to.”

“I was hungry,” Dean replies pointedly. “And that wasn’t stupid it was just… unadvisable.” 

“You were sick for three days.” 

“But on the bright side the kebab _did_ taste awesome.”

Cas gives him a weary glance. “The toaster in Oregon, the all-bacon pizza in New Jersey, the boulder in Indiana, the Roogaroo in Wisconsin, the music store in Colorado, the –”

“Okay, enough,” Dean cuts him off sharply, bringing his fists down hard against the air. “Okay, maybe I _do_ do a lot of stupid stuff, but most of those are coincidentally stupid, not purposefully stupid.” Most of the time he doesn’t mean to do thinks that probably lack in common sense, they just _happen_ ; like it’s not his fault he wanted to know what would happen if you toasted a burrito. It’s just normal, human curiosity and the urge to strive for better in the name of science or whatever the fuck it is Sam and Cas are always going on about. 

“Starting a bar fight because you’re pansexual –”

“Cas-sexual,” he corrects before he can stop himself. He doesn’t even know what ‘pansexual’ is and Cas is probably just making it up. It sounds weird and he doesn’t like it and he doesn’t want to be _labelled_. 

Cas gives him a look he can’t analyse. “Because you’re _Cas-sexual_ isn’t something you do subconsciously.” 

“Well it was. I didn’t mean to say it.” 

“ _What_?” Cas asks impatiently. 

Dean coughs and looks away, and mentally punches himself in the goddamn face because he shouldn’t have said that. “That you’re my, uh,” he feels his face heating up, and stumbles looking for words. “Because the chick was asking if this Cas person was my girlfriend or wife or what and then she ran out of things and then I…” he drops his gaze. “I, uh, I said you’re my boyfriend,” he mutters the last sentence so quietly he can hardly hear himself, so it’s no wonder Cas sends him an annoyed look, accompanied by another sharp ‘ _what?’_. 

“I said you’re my boyfriend,” he says only slightly louder. “Which was stupid. Because you’re not. You’re just… you’re my… you’re my _Cas_. Not my boyfriend.” 

“I think that that would be the word to describe out relationship if we were going to use titles,” Cas says, ignoring how garbled Dean’s speech is. He isn’t even sure if he formed a single coherent sentence just then. 

“Do you want to use titles?” 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“But do you?” Dean isn’t sure what he wants the answer to be, and he finds himself holding his breath.

“I don’t know. It… it feels nice, but it doesn’t matter either way. As long as _we_ know what we are, we don’t need to classify it.” 

“But do you _want to_?” Dean isn’t sure why he’s pressing the topic, because if he’s being honest it just makes him uncomfortable, but there’s an itch in the back of his head that just won’t go away and he _needs_ to know. 

“Do I want to call you my boyfriend?” Cas clarifies, and then at Dean’s nod continues. “Hypothetically, if I knew that you weren’t going to hurt yourself about it, then yes, I _would_ like to call you my boyfriend.” 

Dean swallows. “If you wanted to – I mean I’m gonna take one for the team here and all – but if you wanted to, I’d be okay with that. I mean, it makes me feel like a girl, but I think I could get used to it.” He frowns. “Maybe.” 

Cas smiles widely, and Dean knows that now he’s not going to be able to say no to having a _title_ , and that now there’s no pulling out; not because Cas won’t let him but because that smile _does things_ to him, goddamn it. Cas is like a fucking kitten, and you can’t let him look at you with those stupid, blue eyes because then you’ll give him whatever the fuck he wants because he’s just that cute. Except Cas isn’t _cute_. Cas is terrifying and badass and – if Dean has to put a word to his physical appearance, and today does seem to be ‘give everything a title day’ – handsome. And hot. He’s really fucking hot, except Dean can’t think about that because then they’ll have a repeat of the Impala Incident (the one with the groping hands and grinding hips and _tongues_ and _teeth_ and all the other things that make Dean want to jump Cas every time he thinks about it), and Cas is a virgin and he isn’t going to take that from him. So basically, Cas is a badass, scary, hot-as-Hell kitten. 

“You’re my boyfriend,” Cas says, sounding proud. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” just because he agreed to it doesn’t mean he wants to hear the word more than is strictly necessary. “So you coming for a drive or what? I need to get out of here before I start breaking furniture. I feel all _closed in_ ,” he shudders. It’s now early afternoon, which means he’d been asleep for at least fifteen hours and sure, he’s been cooped up longer than that, but the thought of being _asleep_ for so long makes him feel all itchy and wrong and he hates it. 

“Do you want me to?”

“Course I do,” Dean pats him on the back, and sends him a warm smile before walking over to the bathroom door and banging his fist against it. “Hey Paula Deen, we’re going for a drive.”

“What?” Sam barks.

“I said we’re going for a drive,” he repeats louder. “Me and Cas. In the car. Driving.” 

Sam is silent for a moment. “Paula Deen is a chef,” he says, sounding confused.

“I knew that,” Dean answers brusquely, which he didn’t. He knew that she was a woman who did something girly and could therefore be compared to Sam. Just because he’s with a dude doesn’t mean he’s suddenly going to know about chefs and colours and makeup and fuck knows what else. 

“No you didn’t!” 

“Stop being a bitch. I’m going for a drive with Cas, we’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” he calls, and Dean hears a bottle being placed on the sink and the running of water and he frowns.

“What are you _doing_ in there?” 

Sam is quiet, and then when he replies Dean barely catches it through the door. “Moisturising.” 

Dean can’t hold back a snort, and then when the thought that Sam actually _moisturises_ sinks in he’s doubling over in laughter. “Shut up!” Sam calls.

“Hey, do you wear those gloopy mask things that make you look like a bad horror movie extra? With the zucchini on your eyes?” 

“It’s cucumber,” he corrects, which doesn’t do anything to help his situation. “And _no_!” 

Dean takes another moment or two to laugh at Sam, and wonders how _he_ ended up being the one who’s about as straight as a slinky when he likes cars and music and women and Sam _moisturises_. Go figure. 

“Come on, Dean,” Cas says, laying a hand on his shoulder. He smiles and Dean feels like the witch in The Wizard Of Oz, melting slowly into a little puddle on the floor, “I’d like to go for a drive now.”

“Stop nagging, I’m getting there. You’re worse than a toddler, I swear to God,” he thinks for a moment. “You know, we need to come up with a new saying for that.” 

“You shouldn’t hate God for what he did to me, it was only fair,” Cas says, and they really need to work on his lying skills. He can see how Cas feels about the guy. Maybe _hate_ is too strong of a word, but resent sure fits the bill.

“You’re not fooling either of us, you know that? C’mon,” he rests a hand on the small of his back and then, just because he can, he kisses him, short and firm. He pulls away, extends his hand, and without hesitation Cas slaps his down, squeezing tightly. 

“You have really nice hands, have I ever told you that before?” Dean asks as he opens the door, gesturing for Cas to go first and then following behind, because he’s a fucking gentleman. He looks down at their clasped hands and runs his thumb over Cas’ forefinger, feeling where the bone meets the joint and then running it back up over his knuckles. 

Cas frowns. “They just look like all other hands.”

“They’re nicer,” Dean says. “All… _Cas_.” 

Cas gives him his ‘Dean you’re an idiot but I the-four-letter-L-word you’ and lets go, and Dean feels suddenly cold and empty and hurt, but then he realises Cas is just hopping in the car and feels stupid. 

Dean chuckles as he starts up the engine, overcome with a sudden exhilaration, light and happy, almost forgetting about the fact that he’s covered and bruises and that this goddamn town is full of witches and homophobic dickbags, and just enjoys the purr of his engine and the sharp scent that is just _Cas_ gradually filling up the interior of the car. 

“Should we talk about what happened last night?” Cas asks, and Dean’s positivity only drops slightly. 

“Probably,” Dean says. “But we’re not gonna. Not right now at least.”

“Okay,” Cas doesn’t press further, and for the first few minutes they’re comfortably silent, and then when they pass the ‘ _You are leaving Manhattan, KS, hope you enjoyed your stay!_ ’ sign (which makes Dean quietly amused because it has to be the most _unwelcoming_ town in this part of America) he turns to him and says, “Where are we going?” 

“I’ll be damned if I know,” Dean replies, and then winds down the window, hanging his hand out and letting the cool air whip against it, the sun managing to break through the clouds overhead and create just enough warmth that it feels _awesome_. 

Cas gives him an inquisitive glance and rolls down his own window, sticking his hand out and then laughing when the wind hits it. Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye, a warmth bursting up inside of him at the look of sheer happiness on Cas’ face; the way his head’s tipped back and his eyes shut, his hand hanging out the window, fingers curled slightly like he’s trying to grab a handful of the wind. And fuck it, because he’s allowed to if he wants, he reaches over and grabs Cas’ free hand with his own, resting their palms together on the console. 

Cas opens his eyes and meets Dean’s; all wide and blue and innocent. Dean wants to kiss him, except driving and kissing aren’t a good mix, and so before his brain catches up he’s pulling them over and shutting of the engine. “What are you doing?” Cas frowns.

“Kissing,” Dean replies, and then, because actions speak louder than words and all that, he’s leaning over and pressing his lips to Castiel’s. Cas smiles against his mouth and brings his other hand around to cup Dean’s face, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip. 

“Hey, none of that,” Dean says, pulling away with a smile. He never thought he’d say it, but he doesn’t want to make out, he just wants to _be_. Making out is nice and all – especially when it’s Cas and he does that thing with his tongue – but right now he doesn’t want to. He’s never really kissed people in a non-making-out-way, as sad as that probably is, and he likes it. He likes the slow drag of mouths and closed lips almost as much as the heat and lust and urgent tongues, pressing and gliding over sharp lines and soft curves; the warmth of clasped hands, fingers entwined, squeezing down hard but free from craving, leaving no bruises, no finger-nail marks. 

“Sorry,” Cas says, dropping his head and pulling his hand away. “I didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries.”

“Hey, no boundaries were overstepped. We can make out later. We can definitely make out later. Right now though,” and idea occurs to Dean and he grins, “we’re gonna have a snowball fight.” 

Cas frowns and glances from Dean to the large embankment by the side of the road and then back again. “Why?”

“Because one, it’s winter, and you can’t go through winter without throwing at least one snowball at a person and two, because it’s _fun_.” 

Cas’ brows furrow further, but he rolls up his window and steps out of the car. “How do you have a snowball fight?” he asks when Dean has wound up his own window and gone around to stand next to him.

Dean takes a step back and fixes Cas with a look that speaks volumes. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve never had occasion to so much as observe a snowball fight. It’s hardly of concern to Heaven.” 

“But I thought you were just supposed to _watch_. Just sit up there on your cloud and use the Eye of Sauron or whatever to see everything that was going on down below.” To be honest he has never really given what Cas actually _did_ before they met much thought and he instantly feels bad.

“We’re not God,” he says. “We can’t see _everything_ at once. Usually we would be given specific charges – people who would be important in some way – whom we were to watch over, make sure they followed the path chosen for them by Heaven and only interfering if they were wavering.” 

“Wait so… did we have an angel?” The cogs in Dean’s head are turning. “Were _you_ our angel?” So Cas might have technically been _his angel_ even before they met. His mom was right, angels are watching over him, and by the sounds of it they have been for a long time. The thought isn’t anywhere near as comforting as he would have thought. 

Cas smiles and looks down at the ground. “No. No I believe that the angel in charge of the Winchester family and lineage was Uriel.”

“That _dickbag_?” Dean hates pretty much all the angels he’s met, except for Anna and Cas, simply because they don’t call him a ‘mud-monkey’ and look at him like he’s a particularly unpleasant amoeba, but Uriel is one of the _worst_.   

“Unfortunately. If things had gone to plan he would have raised you from Hell. It was purely luck that I managed to break through the battalions and get to you first.”

“Well I’m glad it was you,” Dean says. “Fuck, am I glad it was you.” He can’t imagine what things would be like if they had _gone to plan_. It would have been Uriel with his vessel that looks like a gym teacher trying to impersonate a lawyer in that barn instead of Cas, Sam would probably have been dead for a long time, and if not they would both be dead now. There would be no _Dean and Castiel_ , just a rotting corpse and another, almost-robotic, foot soldier. 

“So am I.” He tilts his head toward Dean. “It’s odd when you think about it like that. It’s completely down to one random act of chance that we’re where we are now. Heaven doesn’t act on random, for angels there is no such thing as _random_ , and yet there _was_ and then by chance things kept happening, spawning and twisting together until we ended up here. One random act of chance.”

“But isn’t that how every relationship works?” Dean leans back against the side of the Impala. “It’s just some stupid, unimportant thing that brings you together. It’s how everything is for us. It’s all just a game of dice, and we’ve gotta hope we roll well.”

“Nothing is really chance; it’s all angels,” Cas says almost bitterly.

“Except that. Except _you_.” Dean chuckles humourlessly. “It’s kind of ironic when you think about it; maybe the only random, unplanned act in the history of the _universe_ threw off Heaven’s entire plan.” 

“I’m glad it did,” Cas says, meeting Dean’s eyes. “I’m glad that it was me, and that the Righteous Man was you, and that the universe found a way of overriding everything.” He pauses for a moment and drops his gaze. “I don’t think God is in charge anymore. I don’t think Heaven have anywhere as much control as they would like. There is too much chaos and confusion and sheer _humanity_ in the world. Everything is just God trying to fix what the universe is endlessly creating.” 

“Well I owe the universe a big thank you then,” Dean says, and then grabs Cas and tugs him over for a gentle kiss, the sun heating their noses when he pulls away to rest their heads together. 

“One random act of chance,” Cas adds with a small smile. Dean kisses him again, soft and sweet, and then, while Castiel is still staring at him dazedly, a wide smile on his face and his eyes looking like the ocean in one of those postcards of beaches that Dean will never visit, he grabs up a handful of snow and shoves it in his face.

“And now I get to throw snow at you,” he grins, scooping up another handful and ignoring the cold bite against his fingers. “I’d suggest you run.”

“We were having a serious conversation!” he growls, but he’s smiling so Dean knows it’s okay. And it actually _is_. Things feel more _okay_ than they have in a long time. 

“And now we’re gonna throw snow at each other,” he reiterates, firing the clump at Cas, and they do, until they are cold and wet and shivering and Dean is feeling like a kid again. They tumble through the untouched snow together, leaving cleared trails behind them and footprints and handprints and a couple of snow angels, because Dean decides that for a moment they’re both going to have wings and that neither of them need to fly because _this_ is so much better. He hasn’t felt this _alive_ in maybe forever, full of adrenaline but free from danger, renounced from any expectations or duties. He can kiss Cas if he wants to, and then continue to pummel him with snow, and no one is judging them about _anything_ because it’s just them and they’re allowed to simply _be_. 

One huge, random, act of chance and a million small ones and now here they are, laughing and content, cold to the bone and in desperate need of warmth, but as always, they find that warmth in each other, and Dean for one is never letting go again. 


	31. Chapter Thirty

Because they’re Winchesters, it isn’t long before everything goes to Hell in a hand-basket.

It should have just been a normal, regulation exorcism; some low level demon causing havoc in the middle of West Virginia, except then things had somehow spiralled out of control. They had come rolling into the town of Desert Fork (which is up there with Loafers Glory for stupid place names) cocky and confident and sure that this would be A Simple One, and that they could save a person, send a demon back to Hell and once again stop a multiplicity of bad from happening, as is per usual for them. But in retrospect, they should have seen this coming, because there is no such thing as _per usual_ for them, unless one is including the lack of simplicity and monotony in their lives.

Sam for one didn’t see this coming. He didn’t think that _this_ would ever be a possibility. He had thought that maybe, just maybe, it was all over and that now he could get back to travelling around the country and hunting monsters, free from _this_. He thought that _her_ and her schemes would be able to be a thing of the past, and that he would never have to say – or even _think_ – her name again. 

But also, Sam isn’t stupid so he knew all of that was just a pipe-dream. He should have killed her a long time ago. 

“Hello, Sam,” Ruby grins, sending a cold shiver down his spine.

“Why are you here?” he snarls, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and fixing her with a glare that he hopes shows _all_ his hate, and _all_ his repentance toward her, and trying not to display how much this is actually messing him up.  

She grins wider, her eyebrows quirking up, and Sam spares a glance toward the doorway, hoping that Dean, or even Cas, will burst through it, but at the same time praying they don’t. “Did you like my little treasure hunt? The cattle mutilations, the deaths… all leading in a perfect line _straight_ to Desert Fork.” Ruby laughs and shakes her head. “I can’t believe that you were _stupid_ enough to follow it,” her eyes widen, glinting in the low light of the warehouse. “But I guess you do make a living on stupid, don’t you Sam.”

He’s trying hard not to react, because there’s nothing he can do. Dean has the knife, and there is only so long he can hold her off without it. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she pauses, and then smiles, which sets of alarm bells in Sam’s head. “I wanted to come and finish what I started.”

“You can’t. Cas fixed me. It’s gone. It’s over.”

“Cas?” she sounds confused for a second, but then she nods. “Oh, yeah, Castiel. The fallen angel. The one who your brother’s fucking. Yeah, no, he might have stuck a bandage over it, but it’s never really gone Sam. It’s a _part_ of you.”

“It’s _over_ ,” he repeats, his fists clenching at his sides. He’s not sure how she knows about Dean and Cas, and if circumstances were different he’s make her tell him just for their sake, but there are more pressing things on his mind right now, like the fact that _Ruby_ _is_ _here_. 

“Hey, I was just giving you a chance to change your mind,” she turns and starts pacing up and down in front of him. “But you always were so _noble_ weren’t you, Sam? Always so eager to do the right thing and save lives and make sure you don’t disappoint your big brother?”

“Shut up,” his fists are shaking from contained anger. 

“You always were so sure that you could save the world, even when it didn’t need saving? You and your deadbeat God and your angels and your _goodness_!” She stops and turns back to him, her eyes wide. “For all those months I pretended to be _like you_! I had to pretend that I wasn’t throwing up in my mouth every time you spoke!” She laughs. “Well I guess the cat’s out of the bag now isn’t it?” Her eyes shine with an almost animalistic glint, full of that same passion and earnest that had led Sam to trust her in the first place. 

“Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?” Sam grits out, his hand clenching down tighter around his knife, even though it won’t do any good.

“Like I said, I need to finish what I started.”

“It’s done.”

“It’s not done, Sam.” She takes a step forward, moving closer with each word. “It won’t be _done_ until you, your brother’s and your pet angel’s guts are spilling out onto the floor and I can taste your blood on my tongue.”

There is a crash from the room next-door and Sam’s head snaps in that direction. “Oh, go help them if you want,” she says with a dismissive gesture, stepping back and crossing her arms. “I won’t be going anywhere.”

He studies her face for lies, but he doesn’t see any (but then again he didn’t see any when she spent months manipulating him either) and Dean and Cas need him, and so he sprints toward the door, only hesitating a second before pulling it open. Dean is standing a few feet away, nursing a bleeding nose, and Cas is over in the opposite corner locked in combat with a young woman who obviously isn’t just a young woman. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Dean says, skewering a demon in the back, pulling out just before it drops to the ground.

“It’s her,” Sam answers, finding that he’s having trouble breathing properly. “She’s here.”

Dean pauses for a moment, and nearly ends up getting hit over the hit with a metal pole, except Sam grabs him and pulls him out of the way. “Who?” he asks, stabbing their assailant. 

“Ruby. Ruby, she’s here.” Sam’s insides twist at the sound of her name, it tasting bitter on his tongue. He used to need her with almost everything he had, maybe just because she was his _supplier_ or maybe it was more emotional than that, and the thought makes him feel sick. Sure, he didn’t know who she really was back then and what she wanted, but the _demon_ thing should have tipped him off. He trusted her and she turned him into her puppet. 

Dean nearly freezes again, but catches himself in time. “ _Ruby_?” Sam nods, grabbing a demon in a headlock so that Dean can stab it through the heart. “What the fuck is _Ruby_ doing here?” 

“She’s here to kill us.”

“Guess that’d explain the, you know, henchman,” Dean tilts his head unnecessarily toward the easy half a dozen demons still standing. “Since when did Ruby have henchman, though? Last I checked she was on Hell’s most wanted list, right up there with us.” 

“Does it matter?” Sam asks sharply. “We need to kill her, Dean!”

“Hey, don’t worry, I’m not arguing.” He pauses. “Cas, you right over there?”

“I’m managing,” he calls back.

“Can you get over here?”

Sam hears a grunt and the sound of someone hitting the wall. “It shouldn’t be too much trouble.” 

Dean works to help clear a path across the room for Cas, and then the three of them are standing together by the door, tossing holy water in arcs before them, holding off the demons that still push forward. “Do you two wanna buy me some time and I’ll go stab that bitch?” Dean asks, laying his palm against the door knob.

“No! No, it needs to be _me_.” Part of Sam just wants to let Dean do it, because that way he never has to even _look_ at her again, but the dominant part wants to go in there, look her in the eyes and then shove what was once her own knife through her throat. He’s angry; at her, at himself, and he just wants it to end. He pushes it down, but _god_ he’s being torn up inside about all this, and he needs to do what he can to make it right. He fucked up big time, and before he can even _start_ to properly fix it, he needs Ruby dead. 

“Sam –” Dean begins, but he cuts him off.

“No. I started this, and I have to end it. It’s my _duty_ , Dean.”

Dean meets his eyes, giving him a look that shows how much he hates that Sam believes that, but knows himself that it’s true. This feels like one of those conversations they should have over the hum of the radio, driving away from some small town late at night, the streetlights reflecting off of the windscreen and Dean driving just a bit faster than is strictly necessary. As it is though, they don’t have time to talk about it. It’s happening _now_ and there was no warning, and so they need to make their decisions and Dean needs to accept that this is Sam’s job. 

“Fuck it, Sammy,” he says, handing over the knife. “We’ll be right behind you.” 

He pushes through the door past Dean, who follows close behind with Cas’ sleeve bunched in his hand. They slam it as soon as they’re through; pressing all their weight up against it, but it still rattles and shakes under the force of the demons running at it. 

“Nice to see you again, _Dean_ ,” Ruby says, enunciating his name like a curse. “Glad to see you’re still whoring it up with fallen angels. It’s becoming a bit of a trend with you.” 

“Go stick it where the sun don’t shine,” and Sam can feel his sneer even though his back is turned. 

Ruby sends a glare in his direction and then turns her attention back to Sam. “Sam,” she nods.

“ _Ruby_ ,” he spits her name like its venom, poisoning him and tainting his self-worth, like her name signifies everything she did to him. Although she wasn’t the one who infected him, she helped it along, gave it every shove in the wrong direction that it needed for Sam to end up the way he was meant to. The endgame didn’t happen, but it was in sight, and it was only a matter of time before the levee broke, and he’s just lucky that when it _did_ he had people to pull him out of the flood. 

“I’m really sorry things had to turn out like this,” she says. “I really, truly, wish that I didn’t have to kill you. I liked you Sam.” 

“You made me drink _demon blood_.” He should just stab her now. He shouldn’t let her talk to him, because that’ll just provide as food for thought and make him feel even worse about everything.

“I didn’t _make_ you do anything! You were behind the wheel for the whole time, I gave you the options and you picked the right ones.” She shrugs. “Or the wrong ones. However you want to look at it.” 

“You wanted me to raise the Devil. You wanted me to start the _Apocalypse_.” 

“The Apocalypse is already happening,” she says. “You don’t need demons to end the world. Humans are doing a pretty bang-up job of that themselves.” 

“At least we _try_ and save people.”

She huffs and looks away. “How many times did I save your ass, Winchester? You’d be dead twenty times over if not for me, and more than that if not for my knife which you so _kindly_ stole. That has to count for something with your whole, stupid eye-for-an-eye morality doesn’t it?”

Sam doesn’t know how to reply to that. 

“Sam,” Dean grits from behind him. “We can’t hold the door shut for much longer. Go kill her!” As he says it, the demons burst through, pushing Cas to the ground and sending Dean stumbling back. Sam is torn between stepping closer to help fight them off or using the distraction to attack Ruby. He decides on the latter.

“We were having a civilised conversation!” Ruby yells. “ _What_ are you doing?” 

One of the demons – a middle-aged man in a tracksuit – freezes. “We thought –”

“What did you think? That I’d prefer to have you get rid of them for me?”

“No, we –”

“Look, I really don’t care,” Ruby holds up her hands.

Sam meanwhile is edging himself forward, trying to get around behind Ruby, because enough is enough. There are five demons left – including Ruby – which wouldn’t be particularly problematic for them if one of them _wasn’t_ Ruby. He’s seen her fight and knows that she is more than a match for him or Dean, which means she could snap Cas like a twig. 

Sam is almost behind her when she spins around and grabs his wrist, twisting it quickly so that the knife falls to the ground. “I do know what you’re trying to do, Sam, and it’s not going to work.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says through gritted teeth, his wrist feeling dangerously close to breaking. She twists her hand that inch more and a blinding pain goes shooting up Sam’s arm. He involuntarily stumbles backwards, nursing his wrist against his chest. “You bitch,” he chokes.

She smiles, her eyebrows quirking up. “Yeah, basically.” 

Sam lunges for the knife, but with a swift movement she kicks out, the toe of her boot impacting with his broken wrist. Dean must hear him cry out, because he yells his name and out of the corner of his eye Sam sees him running forward, leaving Cas to face the four demons, unable to do anything but dodge and fling holy water in their direction.

Ruby kicks the knife across the warehouse before either Sam or Dean can grab it, and then steps gracefully out of the way as Dean aims a punch at her. “You’re fighting a losing battle here, guys,” she says. “You know full well what I’m capable of.”

Sam inhales sharply, doing his best to ignore the sharp burn in his wrist. “Yeah,” he can see that his smirk throws her off, her brows furrowing for a moment before she regains her composure. “But you also know what _we’re_ capable of.” He laughs; the sound choked and pained, and meets her eyes. “You should know by now that you never mess with the Winchesters.” 

She takes a moment to reply, doubt momentarily clouding her features before her own smirk returns, but it’s less sure than it was before. “You don’t scare me, Sam. I made you what you are. You would be _nothing_ without me!” 

Sam laughs again. The pain in his wrist is becoming more bearable, his body acclimatising itself to the constant agony. “You didn’t _make_ me. I killed demons before I even met you. I grew up a hunter, Ruby, and so did Dean. You didn’t do anything except help us work out what’s wrong and what isn’t.” 

For the first time Sam fully registers Dean crouching next to him. “Sam? Sammy, are you okay?” His hand is hovering just above Sam’s, where it is starting to turn red and swell. 

“It’s just a broken wrist,” he says, climbing to his feet. “I’m fine.” Splotches of white swim before his eyes, but he blinks them away, grabbing Dean’s sleeve with his good hand. “I’m fine.” 

“You hold in there, Sammy,” Dean says. Sam isn’t _dying_ ; he’s fine apart from his wrist, which is hardly a major injury, so it makes him angry. If it were Dean with the broken bone he’d be shaking it off like it were nothing. 

“Dean, I’m _fine_.” He looks up from the point on the floor that he’d been focusing on and blinks in surprise. “Where’s Ruby?” 

Dean’s head snaps up as well, his eyes instantly flying over to Cas, who is trying his best to do _something_ , but not having much success because Ruby is pushing her demons out of the way and making a beeline straight for him. He swipes his canister of holy water outwards, but only a single drop falls out, splattering on the floor.  

Then several things happen at exactly the same time. Two new demons come tearing through the wall in Dean’s Impala, the lot that had just been targeting Cas come running forward and Ruby grabs Castiel by the front of the shirt and shoves him against the wall.

Sam doesn’t have the liberty of feeling pain anymore, so he lunges forward and begins slashing outward with his salt-covered knife, Dean at his shoulder, alternating between using his blade and his fists. 

Then Castiel screams and Dean freezes. 

* * *

He has felt pain much worse than this before. He has had his grace all but mutilated, torn at by God until it was thrumming and sore for days. As an angel, he had been stabbed, shot at, burnt, drowned, all a million times over, and he had felt how his vessel had been in pain, but it had never hurt _him_ because although they were one, he had also been wholly separate. 

Now though, there is no wall between the human body and himself, and so the knife being driven into his shoulder feels like nothing he has every experienced before. He feels the cold touch of the metal, sending contrasting waves of white hot pain in arcs from where it touches down; blood being brought to the surface, sticky against his skin and his shirt; muscles ripping and contracting and tearing apart. He can’t keep from voicing his cry because it _hurts_. 

“You know, we never really properly met,” Ruby says, twisting the knife and sending another pulse of burning pain through his shoulder. “I mean, we _met_ , but we never got to have a conversation.” 

“I don’t believe that I would ever _want_ to,” Castiel grates out.

“That’s a two-way street, ass-hat.”  She twists the knife again, apparently just for the sheer pleasure of it. “You know, when I heard that you and Dean had moved past that stupid stage you were caught in for however long, I found it hilarious. I mean, _Dean Winchester_ and a fallen angel. Hardly old news is it?”

“Dean didn’t love Anna,” he says firmly.

“And what makes you so sure he loves you? How d’you know he isn’t just going to get bored of you and toss you out with the garbage?” 

“Dean wouldn’t do that,” he hates the doubt nagging at him, because Dean _wouldn’t_. He knows how scared Dean is that _he_ will leave him, so he doubts that he will be the one doing the separating.

“I can see the doubt in your eyes, angel,” she twists the knife, and Castiel grits his teeth, but doesn’t cry out this time. “You know full well how important and good-looking and whatever else it is you hunters care about Dean is, and you’re just a fallen angel. I mean, look at you.” She accentuates her point with another rotation of the blade. 

“Dean and I need each other,” he says through clenched teeth.                                                 

“And I need some fries, but you don’t see me getting any. Point is that one of these days Dean’s gonna realise that he’s too good for you.”

“Why are you saying this?” Castiel growls. “Why do you even _care_?”                 

“To be honest,” she moves her head so that her eyes are meeting Castiel’s, “I don’t, but I am, after all, a bringer of _truth_.” She pulls away on the last word. “And the truth here is that as much as your relationship wants to make me throw up, it’s perked up my interest.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because it’s _amusing_ ,” she laughs. “It’s sad that you think you actually have a chance with him.” She must catch the look in Castiel’s eye – the protective, territorial one – because she cringes and says, “Don’t worry I wouldn’t lay my hands on him if I were _payed_ , but he’s highly in low demand. I mean he’s _brave_ and _handsome_ and hardly _shy_.”

“ _He chose me_ ,” Castiel spits, putting emphasis on each of the words, injecting as much venom into them as he possibly can with the burning pain in his shoulder.

“Well then you should do him a favour and leave before he gets too attached. You’re dragging him down.”

Castiel isn’t stupid; he can see what Ruby is doing. She is trying to abase him, to bring down his self-confidence and feeling of self-worth, because for her, causing physical pain isn’t enough. She _hates_ them all, him especially, for ruining her plans and this is all part of her revenge. 

But what if she isn’t lying?

What if he is bringing Dean down? What if Dean is just putting up with him because he feels responsible, and he _doesn’t_ love him? But no, Castiel can’t think that, because he knows it isn’t true. Dean has said himself how much he needs him, and Castiel would be a hypocrite if he started to question that because he told him to work up from the belief that he would never leave him. He loves Dean with everything he has, and he knows that Dean loves him back so he _can’t_ let Ruby plant doubt in his mind. 

“Stop looking at me like that!” she snaps. “Don’t try and tell me that you don’t know that what I’m saying is true, because I can see that you know just as well as I do. _You’re not good enough for him_.”

“I don’t care,” Castiel says, narrowing his eyes at her. 

“You love him, don’t you?” she says, like it’s a particularly disgusting concept.

“Yes.”

“And you agree that he could do better than you?”

“Yes.” He isn’t going to give her any more than is necessary. He is aware that Dean could do a lot better than him; find a woman, settle down and have children and let this whole life go, but at the same time he knows that he is the best possible person for Dean to love, because neither of them know where they’re going and they’re almost as broken as each other. 

“And you realise that if not for you Dean would be _happy_ , except he’s always worrying about you. I mean, Sam was a big enough burden, but now he’s got you as well?” She shakes her heads and twists the knife again, and Castiel gasps, trying to block out the pain but not succeeding. 

“He is happy.”

Ruby’s eyes widen. “Oh _god_ , you’re really pathetic, aren’t you?” He frowns and when he doesn’t reply she elaborates. “You think you make him _happy_? He’s miserable with you, Castiel. I mean, I’ve hardly seen you two together and I can see it. If you _really_ love him, you should just leave. Sure at first it might hurt him, but in a week, or a month he’ll be happy again.”

“Stop it,” he wishes he could push her off, even just so he could have the height advantage, but he can’t because she’s stronger and he doubts he could move much anyway for the knife embedded in his shoulder. He tries to look past Ruby’s shoulder for Dean and Sam, but she deliberately moves to block his view.

“It’s the truth and you know it. You’re _nothing_. You were nothing when you were an angel, and now that you’re a human you’re worse than nothing.” She snorts. “I _know_ what I am, and I don’t think you do. I don’t think you know how everyone else _pity’s_ you – Dean, Sam, Bobby – everyone you care about just feels sorry for you.” 

“Dean loves me.”

“Again with the _love_. I don’t think Dean knows what love actually feels like, so he’d have no idea if he _loves_ you or not. You want to hear my opinion?”

“No.”

She ignores him and continues anyway. “Dean is latching onto you because you were the closest thing there. You’re taking advantage of him.”

Castiel blinks and tries to sort through the cacophony of thoughts rushing through his head, but it’s all buried under a haze of pain that makes it hard to concentrate. “No,” he says.

“Yes,” she snarls. “You’re taking _advantage_ of Dean. You’re not worthy of him, and you know it, so the question is if you _love_ him so much why are you still painting this messed up illusion that he loves you as well.”

“He does love me,” Castiel replies, but there is doubt. He doesn’t _want_ to doubt Dean, but he can’t help it. It adds up, what Ruby is saying, and when he really thinks about it he _doesn’t_ deserve Dean, not by any stretch. 

“Say he does. Still doesn’t change the fact that you’ve manipulated him into it.”

“ _Don’t_ you speak to me about manipulation,” he spits, staring her straight in the eyes. 

She doesn’t look away. “I guess I’d be the expert then, so take it from an expert.” Maintaining the eye contact she twists the knife again, and Castiel tries not to look away, but the pain gets the better of him and his head falls to the side, eyes closing. He’s not going to fall unconscious – the pain isn’t that great – but he wants it to be over _now._

He wonders where Dean is. If he could just get a glimpse, just to assure him that he’s okay, then maybe the knife wouldn’t hurt so much. The demons must be putting up quite a fight, barring Sam and Dean from them and the demon-knife at the same time, because otherwise Castiel wouldn’t still be where he is. He guesses that the only reason he isn’t dead already is because Ruby wants the Winchesters to watch him die, so that all of them end feeling as terrible as they possibly can. 

And then he hears shouts and a crackle of electricity, followed by another, and Ruby’s head snaps around, allowing Castiel a glimpse at what is happening. Sam is jumping behind the wheel of the Impala, revving the engine and then before the two demons in front of him can jump out of the way he’s ploughing them down, Dean meanwhile stabbing another in the neck with the demon-knife. 

Sam turns sharply, knocking the demons down when they try to get back on their feet, allowing Dean to deal with the one attacking him. It falls to the ground with another crackle and a burst of orange light, and then Dean is slicing the neck of one and then the other. His movements are graceful, flowing, and obviously one-hundred-per-cent intentional. He knows what he’s doing and he has a goal clear in mind. He knows exactly where to swing and where to slice, and Sam does too and it strikes Castiel how _in tune_ they are with each other. 

As the last demon falls to the floor, Dean swiftly pulls out the knife and comes running forward. Ruby pulls away from Castiel, removing her knife and holding it out in front of her, body rigid and stoic, but Castiel can see the fear in her eyes, and she _should_ be scared. His hand moves up to his shoulder, ignoring the pain as he presses it down tight over the wound in an attempt to slow down the blood flow. Black spots are swimming in front of his eyes and when he looks down all he can see is blood; _his_ blood, seeping out of his body, hot and viscid. 

Dean lunges forward, aiming for her throat, but she dodges and swipes outward with her own blade, which is stained scarlet with Castiel’s blood. Dean strikes his elbow outwards, hitting her upper arm and then with the hand not holding the knife he grabs her wrist and twists. With a crack of bone her knife falls to the ground. His eyes are dark, and Castiel thinks that he _definitely_ meant to break it.

Their eyes meet before Dean brings the knife around, digging it into her back. She gasps and tries to look away, but Dean follows her gaze. “Rule one,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper, “you don’t hurt my car.” He pulls the knife out and thrusts it back in again, making her body lurch forward. “Rule two, you don’t hurt my brother.” He emphasises it with another stab, his hands on her forearm keeping her standing. “And rule three,” his voice drops both in pitch and tone, “ _you don’t hurt my angel_.” With a sharp turn of his wrist, he drives the knife in deeper and with a final, high-pitched cry Ruby falls to the floor. 

Not seconds after, Castiel’s vision goes dark and he follows, Dean’s hands reaching for him as he sinks into the black oblivion. 


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

“This is coming a bit of a habit with us,” Dean says, handing Castiel a glass of water. “Nursing each other back to health.”

“We’re not being _nursed_ ,” Castiel replies indignantly, but grabs the glass anyway, pushing himself up further in bed and taking small sips.

Dean doesn’t answer, instead just sitting down next to him. “How’s your shoulder?” he asks, gently pushing down the sleeve of Castiel’s t-shirt (which if they are being technical belongs to Dean) and smoothing down the edges of the bandage.

“I’m fine,” his hand absently drifts up, pressing down against the wound. It stings, and reminds him how very _human_ he is now, that a regular knife can cause this much pain. “Can I get out of bed yet?” As long as he doesn’t move too sharply or knock his shoulder against anything he _is_ fine, except Dean seems to be under the impression that he needs to be ‘regaining his strength.’ 

“You need to rest.”

“I have rested,” Castiel says flatly. “I don’t want to _rest_ anymore.” 

“You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that?” Dean says with a smile, leaning down to kiss Castiel’s forehead. His stomach flips and a wave of guilt washes over him, making him pull away from Dean and look in the opposite direction. 

“Cas?” Dean sounds worried, like maybe Castiel is about to pass out, which he isn’t. He’s fine, apart from that fact that he isn’t, and that letting Dean even _sit_ with him like this is making him feel horrible because he can’t do this anymore. It isn’t fair on Dean. 

They need to have this conversation sometime soon, but Castiel doesn’t want to be confined to his bed when it happens, and he tells Dean so. 

“What d’you mean you don’t wanna be laying down when we have this conversation?” Dean asks. “What conversation? Cas, what’s going on?” 

“I told you, I’m not going to talk about it now.”

Dean swears and stands up, pulling the blanket off of Castiel’s legs. “There. Fine. Get up.”

He pushes himself off of the bed, making sure not to lean on his right arm, walking past Dean to the centre of the room, his back still turned. “Thank you.”

Dean follows him, hovering barely inches behind him. After a moment, in which he seems uncertain, he leans in and lays a kiss to Castiel’s temple. “What’s going on?”

Castiel wants to lean back into Dean’s touch, and it takes everything he has to step forward, his eyes clamping shut. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, the words feeling heavy against his tongue, because he doesn’t mean them but he _has to_ , for Dean’s sake. 

Dean is silent for a moment before he replies, his voice sounding slightly choked. “Can’t do what?”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “This. I can’t… I can’t be with you.” 

“What?” Dean sounds a mixture of bewildered and hurt and angry, and Castiel can’t turn around because then he’ll see his face and take it all back. As Ruby said – and Castiel hates the fact that she was so right – Dean will be hurting at first, but in the long run it’ll be for the better. 

“I’m… breaking up with you,” Castiel says, remembering the term they used in the television shows he watched. He searches for another phrase. “It’s not you, it’s me.” 

Dean is silent and still, and Castiel takes another raking breath, shoving down the emotions that are close to spilling out. He feels like there is a hand clenching itself down around his heart, his lungs slowing down until it’s impossible to breathe anything more than tiny, scratchy breaths. He feels cold and dark and empty and horrible about himself for breaking this but knowing that it _needs_ to be done, but hating it with every fibre of his being. 

Rough hands are grabbing him and spinning him around; careful to avoid his shoulder but on the complete opposite end of the spectrum to the gentle touches he usually receives. “ _Exorcizamus te,_ ” Dean begins, his voice low, “ _omnis immundus spiritus_.”

“Dean, I’m not possessed,” Castiel says, unable to meet his eyes, because the fact that Dean believes in him so deeply that he instantly assumes that _he_ could never do this feels not dissimilar to Ruby’s knife being twisted in his shoulder. 

“ _Omnis satanica potestas_ ” he continues _._ “ _Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii_.”

“ _Dean_ , I’m not a demon.”

“Well what then?” he growls, shaking him slightly. “A shifter? A ghoul?”

Castiel reaches behind Dean and grabs out the silver knife he knows he keeps in his waistband. He holds it up for Dean to see and drags it across his forearm, wincing at the burn, blood bubbling out and running in a thin line down his arm. “I’m me.”

Dean grabs his chin and forces him to look him in the eyes. “No, you’re not, because Castiel promised that he wouldn’t leave me.”

He drops his head, grabbing a handtowel off of the table and pressing it against his wound. “I’m sorry,” he says, applying more pressure to his arm than is probably necessary because it helps to take away from the cold fire eating him from inside out. 

Dean’s jaw clenches and he steps away. Castiel feels his eyes burning but he isn’t going to cry because this _has_ to be done. He wishes it didn’t, because this is a whole new kind of pain that hurts as much as any knife ever could. He doesn’t know how to describe it except he’s being _constricted_ , swallowed up and spat back out, falling through the dark, having flung himself off of the tightrope so that there’s a chance one of them make it to the end. 

“I knew this was gonna happen,” Dean says, sounding on the brink of smashing something. “I knew this was gonna happen and yet I still let myself –” he shakes his head and Castiel knows that the next word was going to be _love_. “Everyone I care about,” he spins back around, eyes burning into Castiel, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. “Here I was thinking you were different.” 

“Dean, I’m sorry. You have to understand –”

“Don’t fucking give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ crap again!”

“There’s nothing you did –”

“Like _fuck_ there’s not,” he says, taking a step forward. “I trusted you and I gave you _everything_ so the least you could do is tell me where I screwed everything up!” 

“Dean –”

“Look me in the eye, you son of a bitch, and tell me what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do _anything_ Dean,” Castiel says, forcing himself to meet his eyes. “I just… _can’t_.” 

Dean snorts. “So much for promises,” he says. His face is blank as he pulls off his ring and throws it to the floor. 

“Please believe,” Castiel tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his chest, “that I don’t want to do this.” 

“Well then _don’t_!” he almost shouts in Castiel’s face. “I’m begging you, Cas, and I don’t _beg,_ to rethink whatever it is that’s going on, because I finally found something I want to hold on to.” 

Castiel closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that, but what the _hell_ for? What was it you promised to me?” he takes a step back. “That you’d be different? That you would be the one person who stayed with me forever because you couldn’t _bear_ to leave me? That’d you’d be the thought that made me crawl my way back out of the darkness?”

“Dean –” Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he _can_ say to make this all better, but then he has to remind himself that he doesn’t _want_ them to make this better. 

“Newsflash, Cas, I was _out_ of the dark. I was finally _happy_ and I –” he bites his lip and shakes his head, letting out a humourless huff. “You know how people talk about someone making you feel whole? Well you made me whole, Castiel. Your broken pieces and my broken pieces were fitting together, and I’ve never felt like that about _anyone_ and it still scares me but I didn’t care anymore, because I _had_ you and that was all that mattered.”

“It’ll be better in the long run,” Castiel replies, each one of Dean’s words like a hundred pound weight being placed over his head.

“ _How_?” Dean asks. “Tell me how this is better?”

“You’ll find someone else. You can do better than me.”

“Well I don’t want _better_ , I want _you_. The most beautiful woman in the world could come ask me out right now and I’d turn her down because she’s not _you_.” 

“You don’t mean that, you’re confused –”

“This is the first thing in fucking months I’m _not_ confused about. I’ve never been surer of anything except that I _need_ you, Cas. You told me that you needed me too and I believed you!” His voice drops and he walks over to the opposite wall, distancing himself as much as he can from Castiel. “I believed you.” 

“Dean, I’m sorry,” his words feel choked. “I meant every word I said to you.”

“You said you wouldn’t leave me, so that’s bullshit!”

“I don’t _want_ to leave you, but it’s for the best,” he presses the towel down on his arm, making it throb with renewed vigour. 

Dean shakes his head and runs his hand over his jaw. “I’m not getting a word of what you’re saying to me. I don’t understand what the fucking hell is going on, so _please_ enlighten me.” 

Castiel swallows down the lump in his throat and forces it voice to stay even. “Take my word, Dean, that this is the best option. It hurts now but –”

“Let me guess, it’ll _get better_?” 

“Yes, just trust my judgement.” 

Dean is yelling now. “I trusted your judgement for fuck knows how long, and I thought we were doing good, and you were making me better, but now you’ve shoved all of that down the goddamn drain, so no, I’m not gonna _trust your judgement_. You made me promises, Cas! You were helping me, and you were there for me like no one else ever has been, and now –” he shakes his head. “Who the fuck _are_ you, Cas? It’s like I don’t know you anymore!”

The words make it feel like each one of the weights above his head all come crashing down as one, pulverising him while keeping him conscious, until he is nothing but wavelengths of thought and pain. “You know who I am,” he says, and he can’t even bring himself to be angry. 

“I don’t think I do,” Dean snarls.

He shouldn’t be hurting this much, because it was by his hand that they are here, and he knew what this would entail, but he is. He remembers saying once that he would never leave Dean because it’d hurt him more than it would Dean, and he thinks that that may be true. He never loved _anyone_ before Dean, not really. There was God, but that was blind faith and loyalty more than it was _love_. “Dean, stop –”

“Why? _You’re leaving me_ and I don’t have a goddamn idea why except because I’m me and you’ve finally come to your senses!”

“It’s not you. Dean, I lo– ”

“ _Don’t say it_!” he shouts, turning his back and fisting his hands in his hair. “Don’t say that to me now, Cas.”

“What else do you want me to say?” he asks sharply. 

“That you’ll stay with me!” Dean yells, turning back around, eyes landing on him, the green so empty that Castiel knows he has reached the pinnacle of his emotional capacity, having toppled over the edge into numbness. 

“I can’t,” Castiel’s eyes drop to the floor, landing on the discarded ring, looking small and insignificant against the grey carpet, the silver dull and grey and the bronze looking more like rust than the greenish-gold of Dean’s eyes. 

“ _Why_?” Dean shouts, and there is the bang of his fist hitting the wall.

Something snaps in Castiel and he lifts his head. “Because you can’t feel the same way.”

“What d’you mean, of course I feel the same way, I fucking… you know I do, Cas!” 

“I mean you _can’t_ ,” he presses the towel down against his arm, the sting helping him push away the dark fog of emotion in favour of a burning clarity. “I made you feel like this!”

“Of course you goddamn did!” Dean shouts, sounding confused.

“I mean I _made_ you feel like this. You were weak and I manipulated you!”

Dean freezes, his face losing its hard edges and a look appearing in his eyes that Castiel can’t analyse. Castiel takes it as a cue to continue. “You were broken and I told myself that I was fixing you, and that it was for your sake, but I was being selfish. I’m _selfish_ , Dean, and I made you think that you feel the same way, using my feelings to make you feel guilt. You convinced yourself that you… _needed_ me as well, but you don’t know what it feels like to… to need someone.”

Dean blinks and opens his mouth as if to say something but then closes it again, eyes landing on Castiel. “You think that?” he chokes out. 

“You know it’s true.”

He’s quiet for another moment, and Castiel can almost see his brain sorting through the information, putting the pieces together and realising that he’s right. He’s waiting for the sharp word of realisation, or possibly an ‘ _I hate you’_ , and so it takes him a moment to process it when Dean says, “Ruby.”

“What?” he blinks.

“Ruby. Ruby made you think that,” he doesn’t pose it as a question. His eyes darken. “I’m gonna find wherever it is demons go when they die and kill her slower this time, the _bitch_.” 

“She wasn’t lying,” Castiel says. It’s true that demons lie, but it’s equally as true that they’re honest. Maybe more often than not they will tell you the truth if they know it’ll hurt you. 

“What’d she tell you?” Dean asks, walking forward. “What did she say to you, because I can guarantee that it was bullshit.”

Castiel drops his gaze. “She made it clear that the way you… _feel_ about me is an illusion. I was there and so you latched onto the closet thing in range. If circumstances were different then you wouldn’t have seen me as being anything more than a friend.”

Rough hands grab his forearms. “I chose you, Cas. I know what I feel about you, and it ain’t going away. Nothing you or anyone else can do will change that, because I think that I’ve finally found someone who I want to spend the rest of my life with. You know I don’t do commitment well but…” he shakes his head. “Fuck it, Cas, you’re the only person I’ve ever felt like this for, and it’s confusing and messy but it’s _real_.” He lifts up Castiel’s chin until their eyes are meeting. “It’s _real_.” 

Castiel doesn’t really know what triggers it, but suddenly he’s crying. Dean pulls him into a tight embrace, holding his body as it shakes with sobs and rubbing gentle, calming circles on the small of his back. “We’re not breaking up, okay,” Dean says, and there is no questioning in his tone. “We’re gonna work this out and do whatever it takes to get from point-A to point-B. I’m gonna stay with you.” 

Castiel buries his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, his body shaking with sobs that he doesn’t know the origin of. Dean presses his lips just below Castiel’s hairline, his hand still moving in arcs across his back. “I’m sorry,” he chokes. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he tightens his grip. “I know you didn’t mean it. We’re gonna sort this out, remember?” 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Castiel admits, his voice sounding even lower than it should. 

“You’re not leaving me. We’re never leaving each other, _ever_.”

“You deserve better. I’m not… I’m not worthy of you, Dean.” He feels dark inside, and for the first time he thinks that he might be even more broken than Dean. Dean deserves someone who is strong and together, who doesn’t fall apart and can pick _him_ up off the ground, instead of vice versa. 

Dean pulls back, moving a hand up to Castiel’s shoulder and staring him in the eyes. “You’re everything I ever could have wanted. You’re the most perfect person for me, because you’re just as screwed up as I am, and you get what it feels like to be breaking inside. You and me?” he gestures between them. “We’re broken. We’re broken and maybe we’ll always be broken. Hell, I’m pretty sure I was _born_ broken, but with you I forget all that. You make me feel good and you fill that whole inside me and for once I’m _happy_. I’m actually happy with you, Cas. Never leave me. I’ll never leave you, not in a million years, so believe that I need you more than anything and _never_ leave me.” 

Castiel takes a deep, raking breath and grabs the front of Dean’s jacket. “I won’t. I’m sorry. I won’t.” He leans his head forward, resting their foreheads together. Dean’s breaths sound forced and Castiel looks up to see wet streaks running down his cheeks.

“I’m crying,” Dean says with a small smile. “I don’t cry.” His voice shakes and he looks like he’s trying hard to keep his voice even.  

Castiel reaches up and brushes the tears off of cheeks, his fingers lingering for a moment too long. “Can I say it?” he asks, pressing the pad of his thumb against Dean’s bottom lip, tracing the rough cracks and scars.

Dean doesn’t even have to ask what he means. “Not yet.” He grabs Castiel’s wrist and pulls it away, leaning forward and pressing their lips together.

“I need you,” Castiel whispers instead, but it’s been months since those words didn’t carry a weightier meaning. He wants to tell Dean he loves him; to use the words they both know are hanging at the forefront of their consciousness, instead of the other four letter word that has become their shield, their way to hide from the seriousness of their relationship. 

_Need_ is – at least when it is Dean and Castiel involved – synonymous for love. Maybe it has never meant anything else, being their subconsciousness crying out for them to realise the way they feel. They both know it’s true implication, and for some time now they have been using it in the place of its counterpart, the phrase neither of them dare utter for fear of _everything_. Castiel is ready to take it to the next step, abandon _need_ for _love_ , and he thinks that deep down Dean might be as well, but that doesn’t stop it from scaring him. Truthfully, it scares Castiel as well. 

Dean sighs shakily. “I need you too.”  

“Did you mean what you said?” Castiel pulls back only enough to rest the side of his head against Dean’s, so that when he speaks his breath tickles Dean’s ear and makes him shiver. “About wanting to spend the rest of your life with me?” There is nothing sensual about his touch, but it still carries the deepest intimacy possible, words hushed and air teasing at his earlobe. 

“I think I did,” Dean’s voice, like Castiel’s, is barely a whisper. 

He still doesn’t feel worthy of Dean – not by any stretch – and Ruby’s words still nag at him. There is the unwavering feeling that this is wrong, and that he is taking advantage of Dean, but above anything else there is the surety that Dean _does_ love him. “If you weren’t as… as broken as you were then you wouldn’t feel like this,” Castiel says, needing to get it out of his system and knowing that Dean will listen.

“So? Things are how they are, and I _was_ how I was and I _am_ and...” he chuckles. “I’m not even making sense. I sound like a fucking Dr Seuss book, but maybe things all happened how they did for a reason.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“I’m not saying _God_ had any part in this, or fate or destiny, because I stopped believing that any of that mattered a long time ago, but I just mean that me being the way I am and you being the way you were just… _were_. I’m glad you’re here for me like this, and if it took me being a weak, haunted, dick-bag then so be it. You came into my life at the perfect time Cas.”

He can’t help but pull away and fix Dean with a frown. “I pulled you out of Hell.”

“You know what I mean,” Dean sighs. “I’m glad that it was you, and that you became my friend when you could have just kicked my ass into next week every time I was a stubborn son of a bitch.”

“You’re still a stubborn son of a bitch,” Castiel smiles slightly, Dean mirroring the action almost immediately. 

“Shut up,” he intones, leaning in and knocking their noses together. “I’m not the best with words,” he continues quietly against Castiel’s cheek, “but I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m glad I was broken because it meant you could put me back together.” He coughs and pulls away, the tips of his ears turning red. “You know, or something.” 

“Or something,” Castiel agrees, laying a hand on his cheek and kissing him. Dean leans into his touch; eyelashes’ fluttering against Castiel’s when he tilts his head to the side, hand moving down to rest on his hip, touch gentle, ghosting against his skin. Castiel’s arm is still bleeding, and logic states he should probably pull away and clean it, but for now the towel is a more than sufficient bandage, and kissing is much more important. 

He’s almost crying again, but this time he isn’t sure if he’s happy or sad. He feels a swirling turmoil of emotions; bright elation and the bubbly warmth of _love_ , but dark clouds that he is still beyond identifying threaten to darken the sky. But they have had enough storms for a long while, and so he’s going to ignore them and relish in the fact that he is still with Dean, and that Dean forgives him, even when he doesn’t need to. Maybe they are stuck in the endless complacency of the calm before the storm, and maybe these flashes of turmoil they continue to experience are foreshadowing the finale that is just on the horizon, one that will rip them apart and scatter their pieces until there is nothing left to be rebuilt. Or maybe this is the beginning of spring after a hard, cold winter, the sun finally starting to peek through and troubles becoming less and less as time goes by. Maybe this halcyon of repetitive forgiveness and second chances won’t last forever, but they will ward off the winds for as long as they can, prosper while the sun lasts and hope to shelter themselves when the dark clouds next appear. 

Dean pulls away and meets Castiel’s eyes. “Hey, Cas?” he asks quietly, eyes falling to the floor, catching on something and staying there for a moment before drifting back to Castiel’s.

He follows his gaze to the discarded promise ring and without Dean needing to ask him to, leans down and picks it up. He moves back up to eye-level and goes to grab Dean’s right hand, to press the ring into his palm for when he is ready to wear it again. “Wait,” he says, grabbing his wrist, suspending it halfway between them.

The warmth dissipates, replaced by dread. “I’m sorry. I misinterpreted, I thought –”

“No! No, you’re fine,” Dean says, manoeuvring their fingers so that they’re entwined, filling him with instant relief. “I was just thinking…” his voice trails off and he looks back down at the ground, apparently finding something fascinating in the swirls of grey.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel warns. 

He swallows and looks back up. “Okay, so you know I don’t do this sappy stuff well, but I was thinking… I mean, we’re pretty serious now and… I dunno I was just thinking it might be nice if I… if I wore the ring on my left hand now.” He coughs. “Just so people don’t get the wrong idea.” 

Castiel remembers Dean saying almost the exact same thing but in a different context, wanting to wear it on his right hand so people ‘didn’t get the wrong idea.’ The thought brings a smile to his face. “Of course.” 

Without fuss, because he knows Dean doesn’t want a presentation, he slides it onto Dean’s ring finger. He goes to pull his hand back, but again, Dean grabs his wrist. Silently, not breaking the eye-contact, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something, clamping his fist down around it. Castiel sees a flash of sliver and for a moment panics, thinking Dean must, for some unfathomable reason, still be convinced that he’s not himself, but then Dean opens his hand properly and he’s overcome with a different emotion.

“It don’t mean much,” Dean shrugs self-consciously. “I mean, it was my dad’s, but it isn’t much to look at. It’s not the right kind or anything, but I don’t know what else I can give you to… to make sure you know I’m in this just as much as you are.” He drops his eyes. “Don’t think it means anything more than I’m saying it does, ‘cause it doesn’t, but I just wanted people to know that we’re a matching set.” 

Castiel looks down at the familiar silver band in Dean’s palm and it’s a force to speak around the lump in his throat. “Dean, I –”

“No, you’re right. It’s stupid, I shouldn’t have –”

“Yes, you should have. Thank you, Dean.” He wants to say so much more, because he understands what Dean is doing, but anything more he might be about to express freezes before it reaches his lips. 

Dean’s _committing_ to Castiel. He is making him a promise of a lifetime, as long or short as that may be. If it were another person, the token might not mean as much as it does, but he knows Dean better than he knows himself, and he doesn’t give anyone more than the bare minimum unless his entire heart is in the matter, and he’s more devoted to it than he would ever care to admit. That’s not even to press on the fact that the ring belonged to his father; a man he all but worshipped, whose every remaining belonging he clings to like his life.

“It’s a, um, a less-than-platonic promise ring. All those things you promised me, I, uh, I guess I mean ‘em too.” He’s struggling for words and Castiel can see how hard this is for him. “You’re something else, Cas.” 

“Thank you, Dean.” He picks up the ring and slides it onto his finger, because he knows how _romantic_ that gesture can be considered and he has no desire to push Dean outside of his comfort zone. 

“Fuck, Cas, I really like you,” Dean says, his eyes swimming with emotions, and Castiel wonders how it is that he can be so _empty_ and then so remarkably full all in the space of a half hour. “It’s terrifying as hell, but I want to stay with you.” He sighs and leans forward, resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “I don’t want to breach the topic again, but don’t leave me.” Castiel feels his eyes shut and his hands tighten on his forearms. “Don’t ever leave me.” 

“I won’t,” he says, pressing their bodies together as close as they will go, ignoring the painful jolt to his shoulder and the sting in his arm. The sky is far from clear, the clouds threatening to bring upon them a whole new wave of darkness, but the winds have ceased, the ground below them has stopped rumbling, the stars don’t threaten to fall to earth and burn them where they stand. They will cling to each other when the turmoil re-begins, and maybe at times they will let go, allow themselves to drift, lost to their own desolation, but as always, they will find their way back to each other, because they are Dean and Castiel and they need each other like the night needs a day. 


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

A year ago, if someone had told Dean that in twelve months’ time he’d be making out with a falling angel, he probably would have punched them. If they had told him that this angel was also a _dude_ then he doubts they would have lived to see another day. At some point after the Bar Incident and before the Ruby Incident, Sam had silently agreed that from now on he was going to sleep in a separate room. To be fair, Dean wouldn’t want to watch Sam being all cuddly (not that him and Cas _cuddle_ ) with his significant other 24/7 either, so he can’t blame him. 

These thoughts surface and disappear all in the span of a second – maybe less – because the portion of his brain is occupied with previously stated _making out_. Or more, the portion of his brain cells have melted and the remainder are somewhat addled because, as he mentioned, _making out_. There really isn’t very much brain activity going on at all because hands, and tongues, and lips, and _Cas_ goddamnit.

His wrists are being pinned behind his head by strong hands, Cas straddling his hips and kissing him, not quite slow, not quite fast, gentle and needy and satisfied all at the same time. His tongue cards against the inside of Dean’s mouth, and Dean gave up fuck knows how long ago trying to hide how much he likes that, moaning and replying with a scrape of his teeth. Cas slowly drags his hands down Dean’s arms, bare skin turning to t-shirt, turning to skin again when one slithers behind Dean’s neck to cup it gently, fingertips curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his head backwards so that lips can press down more firmly. 

Dean’s hands brush down Cas’ sides, his body soft and pliant above him, back arched and moving with each drag of lips. Dean doesn’t hold back a gasp when a hand slides beneath his shirt, without warning a rough palm splaying out against his stomach, a feeling not dissimilar to the coil of electricity travelling in jagged waves from where the fingertips arc. Slowly, the hand moves upward, bunching up his shirt and dragging it up to his armpits, stopping at random intervals to scrape down his sides or run in a small circle over one of his many scars. 

Cas brings his head away, eyes that are dark with want meeting his, licking his kiss-swollen, red lips and bringing Dean’s left arm up again. Dean doesn’t know when he started letting Cas be in control, but for once he doesn’t mind following, allowing someone else to take the reins. Dean rolls his shoulders to help Cas push his t-shirt up and over his head, and as soon as the material scrapes over his fingers and falls away, discarded in a pile somewhere out of mind, lips are on his again, sucking at his bottom lip and then moving up to his top, pulling away with an audible noise and sliding down to Dean’s jawline, tongue tracing over stubble. 

Cas ruptures the portion of the contact, hands and lips drawing back, hovering in the air above Dean, a teasing itch just out of reach. Dean goes to pull him back down, but Cas fixes him with a glare, that, while being warning, is soft and wanton, and so Dean settles for resting his hands on the gentle swell of Castiel’s thighs, course denim doing nothing to hide the searing heat radiating from his skin. 

Castiel presses his hands into the rut above Dean’s hipbones and then slides them up, thumbs swiping against both his nipples simultaneously. Dean lets out a breathy sigh, his grip tightening on Cas’ legs, dragging his waist down an inch, lining their hips up in a way that is more instinctual than a conscious thought. 

“Dean,” Cas breathes, his hands running over Dean’s sides in stumbling lines. Fingers hook through his belt loops, and then lips are on his again, this time the drag of mouths accompanied by a slight press of hips, arousal growing as backs arch and bodies move from rigid to supple and back again. 

A year ago, if someone had told Dean that in twelve months’ time he would be losing himself to the touch of another man, aching with longing, the slow, warm fire of lust growing in the pit of his belly, then quite frankly, he wouldn’t have believed a word of it, but here he is, the hem of Cas’ shirt dragging against his abdomen as his head bobs to plant messy kisses over the bones of his jaw and the gentle slope of his neck. 

Dean is pushing Cas’ hips down, using his hands to guide their movement, and then there is the sound of the door slamming open and before he has time to register anything, Sam excitedly begins, “Hey guys, you’ll never guess what –" 

At the same time Cas pulls back, a strangled cry is heard from the threshold. “ _Oh my god_!” Sam shouts, and Dean turns his head in time to see him squeezing his eyes shut and dropping the book he was holding in his hand. “ _Oh my god_.” 

Dean glances up at Cas, who meets his eyes, before letting them wander back over to Sam. “Sam,” he acknowledges, sounding like they’d been caught discussing the weather not… not doing _this_. 

“Oh my god.” He opens his eyes a crack and then lets out a choked noise of absolute, unbridled _horror_ and promptly closes them again. “I’m gonna… leave,” he says, picking up his book, and struggling between keeping his eyes shut and not walking into the doorframe. He settles for keeping his eyes glued to the ceiling. 

“Okay, Sam,” Cas replies tonelessly. 

Sam fumbles for the door handle, and as he’s pulling it shut, Dean calls, “Don’t be like that, Sammy. It’s a beautiful, natural act!” Another anguished grunt is heard as the door closes. “Interrupting moose!” Dean shouts, and Sam hits something heavy – probably his boot since he wouldn’t dare harm a book – against the door. 

Cas unhooks his legs from over Dean and collapses next to him, his body shaking. For a moment Dean thinks he’s crying, but then he lets out a soft chuckle and Dean realises he’s _laughing_. Actual, red in the face, breathless laughter; something that looks so alien on Cas that Dean does a double take (or as much of a double take as one can do when one is lying on their back, shirtless, with a dick that is a few steps away from resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa.) 

“What’s so funny?” Dean nudges him with his elbow, tilting his head to the side so Cas’ face is a close blur. 

He blinks and rolls onto his side, facing Dean. He’s still laughing, his chest heaving and his face contorted, silent chuckles visible on his lips. Dean – because he quite frankly gave up a long time ago – quietly thinks how goddamn _cute_ Cas is; one of those people who when they laugh it’s like someone pressed the mute button, completely silent except for the occasional wheeze. Dean isn’t even sure why exactly Cas is laughing – Sam’s reaction was funny, but not _that_ funny – but he finds himself joining in. 

“I don’t get what we’re laughing at,” Dean says, nudging their noses together, Cas’ breath puffing out in uneven huffs against his chin.

“Why do you call Sam _moose_?” he asks in way of a reply.

“Because he’s tall and has stupid hair and looks like a moose. And he just gives of moose vibes, you know?” 

Apparently Cas doesn’t know, because he frowns contemplatively, it not lasting long before the smile returns to his face. “You look like a kid on Christmas morning,” Dean says, pulling back so that everything loses its air of soft focus. He likes how happy Cas looks. It’s – and _fuck_ he needs to stop thinking these words because at this rate one of them are going to grow a vagina – _endearing_. 

“I found Sam’s reaction amusing,” he says with another grin that makes Dean’s stomach flip.

“Dude, he didn’t even scream properly.”

Cas laughs, this time audibly; a low, scratchy growl. “It was amusing.”

Dean gives him a glare that he can’t even be bothered putting half his heart into because Cas is just too _Cas_ , and says, “Yeah, okay Chuckles.” 

The whole _downstairs situation_ is still quite a pressing one, and so Dean pushes himself off of the bed, Cas sitting up almost immediately. “Where’re you going?” he asks, his face falling.

“To have a shower. I need to, uh,” he blushes, “deal with my… you know.” 

“Erection?” Cas says, which _goddamn_ it doesn’t help because that voice _does things_ to Dean. 

“Yeah, that,” his voice sounds suddenly gruffer and he clears his throat. “I’ll be like ten minutes. Can I trust you not to explode anything while I’m gone?”

Cas fixes him with a glare. “You’re the one with a tendency to unnecessarily blow things up.” He frowns. “There will be no blowing.” 

A strangled noise surfaces and it takes a moment for Dean to realise that Cas didn’t even _mean_ to insert some innuendo-which-is-not-positively-contributing-at-all. “I’m… shower,” he says incoherently, avoiding Cas’ eyes and shutting the bathroom door behind him. 

Although he had every intention of having a cold shower, he ends up standing under the warm spray, fingers stroking his already painfully reactant dick. Instead of his mind being filled with images of faceless women and supple breasts, there is stubble and rough hands and blue eyes, all of which he can identify the owner of without sparing a moment’s thought. The hands fist in his hair, lips kiss the insides of his thighs, moving upwards, nipping and sucking, imagined, hot, wet tongue guiding Dean to his climax. When the fire in his belly explodes outward, his hand firm on the wall to prevent his knees from collapsing under him, it is only by a force of will and the tiny slither of self-preservation he manages to scrounge up through the pleasure that he holds back a broken cry of ‘ _Cas,_ ’ hands that almost feel real holding him until the tremors still. 

* * *

Castiel likes watching Dean sleep. 

If he said this to Dean, he would blame it on the fact he read _Twilight_ and compare him to Edward Cullen, the vampiristic protagonist who quite unrealistically sparkled in sunlight. He doesn’t mean it in, as Dean would say, a ‘ _creepy, I can hear the blood pumping through your veins and it turns me on_ ’ way. There is nothing sexual about it in the least.

He likes how soft Dean looks; how unguarded and carefree. His jaw loses its hard, stoic set, his shoulders their tight slouch and there is no furrow to his brow. He looks _younger_ , despite the crows-feet still evident at the corners of his eyes. It is easy to imagine – as long as one doesn’t notice his scars or the hand-print shaped welt on his shoulder – that he’s a perfectly normal, domestic, civilian. But then he’ll shift and the blankets will move down and Castiel will be able to see the tiny lines of scar tissue decorating his body, remnants from random, forgotten fights in the long few months since he was brought back from Hell. 

Dean still has nightmares. There are times during the night when he will be still deeply unconscious but thrashing around, the occasional quiet scream breaking the heavy silence, sweat beading on his forehead and soaking his clothes, mumbling words that are often incoherent and sometimes, rarely, take shape. Castiel will grab him and hold him, whispering calming nonsense, mostly comprising of _it’s okay_ and _I need you_ until the dreams end and he falls back under the pleasant veil of sleep. 

Castiel is always the last to fall asleep and the first to wake, even throughout the hours of oblivious lethargy acutely aware of Dean next to him; his breathing patterns, and his hand tight on his waist. He will feel when Dean presses himself closer, wrapping his arms around him, seeking warmth and finding it with Castiel. 

Sometimes Castiel has nightmares as well, full of fire and screams and the love of his life who doesn’t come to save him, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on them in the waking hours, because they are smoothed away and made into nothing but lies of the subconscious by Dean’s low voice and own soothing touches. It is, he supposes, a two way street. Castiel will push away Dean’s metaphorical demons, and he will do the same, until after what is sometimes hours of restless sleep they both sink into complacency. 

This brings them to now; the early morning sun peeking in through a gap at the top of the curtains, bathing Dean in a soft yellow light. His hair is sticking up in spikes, the way that can only be caused by the repetitive card of hands or a restless night’s sleep, or in this case both. He looks beautiful. Dean would turn belligerent and downright _grumpy_ if he were to hear that thought, but there is no other word to describe it. He is languid and relaxed, the sun giving him a halo of gold. For a moment Castiel feels a pang of old emotion, the hurt of his every angelic aspect becoming lost, but it soon fades in favour of warmth that is all to do with Dean. 

Dean rolls over, pressing his face into the crook of Castiel’s neck. “’Morning,” he mutters, clumsily finding Castiel’s hand beneath the blanket. 

“Good morning, Dean.”

“What time ‘s it?” 

Castiel glances toward the clock on the bedside table. “Just after seven.” They had been awake until after 2:00am last night; what had started off as watching a movie before an early bed having turned into a James Bond marathon. 

Dean hums and slings his leg over Castiel’s. “So we don’t have to get up yet?”

“Sam’s probably –”

“Screw Sam. He can go get himself his yoga breakfast. I’m sleeping.”

“You’re not –”

“Don’t be a smartass.” He gives Castiel’s foot a playful nudge with his own, his voice still muffled by Cas’ t-shirt. “Post-sleeping. Whatever.” 

“Don’t you want breakfast? I can cook if you’d like.” 

Dean gives him another soft kick. “Nah uh. Last time I let you near a stove you nearly burnt the house down. I mean it was a new house. Just built. Like _just_ put together and there were _beds_ and then we had to blow town because the kitchen conveniently went up in flames. No cooking.” 

“You can’t sleep all day. The case that Sam found –”

“Can wait until the sun’s risen. Dude, it’s seven o’clock. In _no_ universe is seven o’clock all day.” Even as the conversation progresses, Castiel can hear Dean waking up. His sentences are getting longer and less garbled, sleepy mumbles being traded more for comfortable hums and stubborn grunts. “And don’t tell me you’re not a stickler for cuddling because you’re like a goddamn kitten.” 

Castiel frowns. “If I were to be juxtaposed to a kitten then you would be a polar bear, as while being violent they are –”

“ _Cas_ ,” he grunts. “It’s too early for a lecture on goddamn polar bears. Actually, can we just call off the polar bear lecture all together? I’m not a fucking polar bear.” 

“They are known to rip their enemies apart without conviction,” he frowns. “As are you.” 

Dean huffs against his shoulder and rolls over, opening his eyes and letting them immediately meet Castiel’s. “You really need to work on your pillow talk.”

“Why?”

Dean chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. “ _Polar bears_ , man. You don’t… polar bears,” he says like it explains everything. 

Castiel loves these conversations – the pointless ones that will lack any meaning whatsoever in an hour’s time – just as much as he loves the deep, meaningful ones that they will carry with them for the rest of their lives. These are the times, he thinks, when Dean is happiest, when he just lets himself ramble about nothing in particular, breaching topics that have no relevance to anything and are just fillers between the constant waves of hurt and worry that are their lives. The conversation drifts from one thing to another, Castiel giving up trying to get them out of bed (but to be honest he never really wanted to). 

“You know, I like this,” Dean says out of the blue, after a small, comfortable silence in between topics. “You being the first thing I see when I wake up. It’s… it’s nice. I’ve never had that before.” 

Castiel supposes that the only constants in Dean’s life have been Sam and his car, even his father being more of an occasional familiarity than anything. He knows that there have been girlfriends before – some whom he was semi-serious with – but that all of them ended messily, and that the only other relationships have been one night stands or strings of high school girlfriends who he used and threw away like spare change. He is as new to this as Castiel is; this having someone to hold onto who is more than an object to make him feel good. They wake up together, they spend their days with Sam, sometimes together sometimes separately, and then they fall asleep as one, a cycle that despite the ever changing details and complications has become a beautiful constant. 

“Neither have I,” Castiel says. 

“We’re like freaking children at this,” Dean says. “I have no idea what I’m doing. Part of me still’s scared I’ll mess up. I’ve never had a…” he clears his throat, “a boyfriend before. Or a proper girlfriend, not really. Sam was always the one for settling down.”

Castiel rolls onto his side, taking in the sight of Dean’s profile, his hands folded over his chest. “Would you want to settle down?” he asks, feelings like he’s treading thin ice.

Dean’s reaction features a surprising lack of swearing and yelling. He stays lying on his back, barely blinking before saying, “I don’t know. Part of me does. Part of me just wants _this_ all the time – no demons, no _God_ , no apocalypse – but I don’t think that’s me. Hell, I think about it sometimes, just ditching it all and becoming _civilians_ , I have since before I took my trip downstairs, I mean usually with a chick but that’s not the point, but then I think of Sammy and all the people who would die if not for us and I just _can’t_ , you know? Fuck, Cas, it’s the bottom point on a long list of scary, but given the chance I’d settle down with you.” 

“Maybe one day we can,” Castiel says, momentarily entertaining the possibility of growing old with Dean, not having to worry about whether they’ll live to see another sunrise. 

“Maybe we can,” Dean replies, a smile creeping onto his face. “We could get a house, and Sam could live in the basement like one of those science geeks who never leave their mom’s, and we could have a backyard and a barbeque and a nice big garage for my baby to live in while we’re not driving her, and Sam could go back to college and I could get a job with whoever would take me. You could even go to school. Become a tax accountant or something. I’d even let you cook if you promised not to burn the house down.”

Castiel smiles too, but he knows just as well as Dean does that it’s all an impossible fantasy; another life that could never happen. “We could get a cat.”

“The cat could stay downstairs. We’d have a downstairs! We’d have one of those nice, big houses like we used to live in back in Kansas, as far as we could get from a motel room because I’ve been living in them for my whole life. It wouldn’t be somewhere busy though. A nice small town, just like Lawrence. Somewhere close to nothing, with lots of back roads that we can drive down, just for the hell of it, and abandoned paddocks where we can practice our shooting.” Something seems to occur to him. “We wouldn’t even _need_ to shoot anymore if we didn’t want.”

“We could grow flowers.”

Dean wraps their feet together, still not looking over at him. Castiel thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to break the illusion, bring himself back to the reality that this life isn’t one they can walk away from. “ _You_ could grow flowers. I’d build a garden for you, but I’d just kill them by giving them too much water or something.” He chuckles. “We’d have our own room,” and Castiel knows that he is no longer talking about the flowers. 

“We have our own room now,” Castiel frowns. 

“I mean a room that’s actually _ours_. Our clothes in the closets, pictures on the wall, an _awesome_ stereo so I can play my music through something that isn’t the Impalas speakers, I could even learn how to play guitar. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play guitar.” The utopia being strung is now growing freely it seems; the words falling from Dean’s mouth with ease, his mind already having formed the fantasy long before, now just filling in details and altering it to fit Castiel. 

“I’d love that,” Castiel says, reaching out and taking Dean’s hand.

“Maybe if we keep imagining it it’ll happen,” he lets his head flop to the side. “Maybe every supernatural son of a bitch will just drop dead and we can go be happy somewhere with a house and flowers and a cat.” 

“That would be nice,” because nothing beyond that needs to be said. Castiel runs his thumb over the back of Dean’s hand in slow circles, bringing their legs up so that their knees are overlapping. 

Dean doesn’t reply, instead just sighing and shifting himself over closer to Castiel. “I want to stay like this forever,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Castiel isn’t sure if he means in bed or simply stuck in this stormless bubble of theirs, but he can’t help but agree. “We’ll make forever last as long as we can,” he says, half expecting Dean to smirk and tell him to stop being a poetic, sentimental idiot, but he is met but a sharp intake of breath and clouded green eyes full of a mixture of hope and melancholy. “We’ll make whatever time we have, wherever that time is spent, whatever life we life, be our forever.”

Dean smiles, and it looks almost sad. “I guess a little bit of forever is better than none.” Then he kisses the tip of Castiel’s nose and they let the next stint of _forever_ begin. 


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

Castiel isn’t sure how to go about this. It has been bubbling under the surface since that first night with the fire – maybe even before that – but now he’s going to actively try and make it something more. He wants this, and he’s pretty sure Dean does as well, but it’s putting action into the words that is their problem. 

As usual. 

If he is to be honest with himself, he’s scared. He has never done anything like this before – never _wanted_ to do anything like this – and it’s equally as terrifying as it is exciting. He takes a deep breath and before he can let his mind dissuade him says, “Dean, I want to have sex.” 

Dean’s head snaps up from his laptop. “What?”

“I would like to have sex.” 

He blinks, his mouth falling open and then closing again. “What?” he says again, after a moment.

Castiel stares at Dean, the hunter shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. Dean coughs and meets his eyes. “You’re a _virgin_ I can’t… It’s not my place to…” he trails off and looks away.

Castiel frowns. He doesn’t know what he was expecting Dean’s reaction to be, but he is quite sure it wasn’t _this_. He knew there would be some uncertainty, some fear (because it is _Dean_ after all) and maybe some awkward, careful conversation about who is going to put what where and when said putting of things will occur. Not uneasiness about Castiel’s _virginity_ of all things. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

“No it’s just…” Dean closes his laptop lid, standing up and running a hand through his hair, back to Castiel. “I want to. I want to, don’t get me wrong, but I…” he turns around. “I can’t take something like that from you. It should be –”

“ _Special_?” Castel interrupts.

“Yeah, I mean, you have to be _sure,_ you know, ‘cause that’s something you can’t get back. It’s the principle of the thing.” 

He tilts his head to the side, Dean’s eyes flickering constantly between him and the ground. “You don’t think you’re worthy.”

He shrugs; it obviously intending to come across as loose and nonchalant, instead tight and almost robotic. “If it weren’t your first time then I would’ve done it with you ages ago. I mean, I’m pretty sure I dehymenated like half of the girls at every high school I went to but they weren’t… they weren’t special like you are.” 

“You’re worried that I’ll _regret_ it?” Castiel frowns. 

“I don’t… I don’t _know_. Maybe?” Dean runs a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

Castiel stands up and pulls out one of the dining chairs. “Sit down.” Dean shakes his head, and so Castiel glares and, more firmly, repeats himself. “ _Sit down_.” 

Dean mutters something about _chick-flick moments_ and throws himself down into the chair. Castiel sits down opposite him and folds his hands on the table in front of him. “What is it that’s concerning you?” 

“Don’t start giving me therapy,” Dean grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I would like to be able to discuss our relationship properly. Therapy is not strictly necessary.” 

“Yeah well, I don’t wanna have a flowery, lacy conversation about us sleeping together and talk about how we need to _consummate_ our relationship or whatever and then hug and cry and admit how scared we are before riding off into the sunset jerking each other off on the back of a horse,” he makes a vague, swift gesture in the air next to him, the meaning of which Castiel is lost to.

“Are you?”

“Am I _what_?” Dean snaps, crossing his arms again.

“Are you scared?” 

His face softens for a moment, before the tight-lipped scowl returns to his face and his shoulders tighten even further. “’Course not. It’s just sex.” 

“But it’s not,” Castiel steeples his fingers, leaning his chin on them and gazing across at Dean. “It means more than other relationships you have had.” He pauses. “Plus I _am_ a male, which, considering your surety that you are purely ‘Cas-sexual,’ makes this as new of an experience for you as it is for me.”  

“’M not scared,” he mutters, eyes glued firmly to the floor. 

“It’s okay if you aren’t ready, I just think this needs to be something that’s discussed.” 

“You can’t just…” he looks up, his body-language screaming _I’m scared, Cas and I don’t know what to do_. “You’re a virgin.”

Castiel frowns and drops his arms, resting his palms against the table. “And so were you at one point. Virginity is something that is meant to be lost.”

“But you’re still part _angel_. It’d be stripping you of your virtue or whatever.”

Castiel feels a twinge in his stomach. He knew, of course, – there was no way that he couldn’t – but he was hoping to just let it slide by without acknowledgement. “Dean, do you know what the date is today?”

He looks taken aback. “What’s that got to do with –”

“Just answer the question.”

“February 25th. I still don’t get –” something must click because his eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yes.” 

“Today’s…” he trails off. The rest of the words don’t need to be said, but Castiel finishes them anyway.

“My last day. Tomorrow I’ll be human.” 

Dean is silent for a minute, fingers tapping an irregular, jittery beat on the table top. “What’s it feel like?” he says finally. “Can you actually feel it or… does it _hurt_?” Green eyes full of presentiment meet Castiel’s. “I never really asked before. Out of mind, out of sight and all that. Sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for.” Castiel drops his gaze. “It doesn’t hurt. I stopped physically feeling anything after I lost my wings.” A humourless smile makes itself at home on his face. “But that’s not to say it doesn’t hurt. The concept of it is still quite… _unreal_ , if you may. Knowing that the last slither of my grace will be gone, despite the fact I’ve not been able to use it in weeks, is emotionally jarring to say the least.” 

“I should have… fuck, Cas, I’m sorry.” 

“What should you have done? Dean, you have no fault here.” 

“Like hell I don’t!” he says, his voice that unclassifiable pitch just between shouting and not. “I didn’t even know it was _today_. What kind of goddamn whatever-the-fuck-I-am – boyfriend, whatever – am I if I don’t even know you’re…” he shakes his head. “I should have tried harder to stop it.”

Instead of anger, Castiel feels a dark bout of dread rise up inside him. “I thought we clarified months ago that nothing could have been done.” The last thing he wants is for Dean to again latch onto the unrealistic idea that he could have saved Castiel if only he had tried harder. This is a song that has been sung many times before, and Castiel thought that it was over; this verse at least. He doesn’t want Dean to start hating himself again, because it always ends in nothing but hurt for everyone. 

“I know that! ‘S not the point!”

“You’re right,” Castiel says, unable to keep the sharp edge out of his voice, “it’s not. The point is I have very strong feelings for you and would like to have sex with you. Whether or not I am an angel does not influence that desire.” 

“I’m not gonna fuck you while you’re falling!” 

“Then _fuck_ me tomorrow!”

“Now you’re just being a bitch,” Dean says, pointedly looking away.

Castiel splays his hands out across the table and leans forward. “Dean, I’m going to lay matters down in the most candid way possible. Yes, today is technically the last day before I’m human, but I’ve been human for a long time now. The date of today, and the particular weight it carries, does not influence how much I want to be with you, in whatever manner we’re speaking of. It is much my desire to sleep with you, but if you don’t wish to, then all you need to do is _tell_ me. I understand that you’re scared. I can wait, Dean.” 

Dean swallows and hesitantly meets Castiel’s eyes. “I’m maybe a bit scared,” he admits roughly. “I’m new to the whole… you know, dick thing. But today –” 

“I don’t want to talk about what today means anymore,” Castiel says, as well as giving Dean a glance that shows he acknowledges what he just said, and that it is accepted and will be worked at and smoothed away with things other than words. “It’s not because I feel uncomfortable about it, just that I don’t want us to dwell on what is now mostly in the past.”

“It doesn’t make you feel like crap?”

Castiel tilts his head to the side, briskly sifting through his thoughts and emotions before replying. “Not really.”

Dean frowns. “But how? I mean you’re _falling_ , Cas. You’ve fallen. It’s over. Everything you ever knew is over.” 

“That’s not true.”

“Name one thing you had as an angel that you have now,” Dean says, his voice not quite angry but quickly getting there. 

Castiel is silent for a moment. “You’re right. I don’t have anything that I had as an angel.” Dean looks like he’s about to reply, but Castiel continues before he has a chance. “But do you know what I _do_ have? I have you, I have Sam, I’m _loved_ , I have free will and choice and happiness and everything else that makes being human so wonderful. If I were given the chance to because an angel again and lose all of this, there would be no competition.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Look at me, Dean, and tell me that this isn’t exactly where I belong.” 

Dean blinks and glances up to Castiel, his eyes lingering for a moment before dropping back down to stare at the floor. “I dunno what my brain is even thinking anymore, Cas” he says quietly. “I know what I want, but at the same time I don’t and it’s all just so goddamn confusing.” 

Castiel frowns. “What are you confused about?” 

“Everything, nothing,” he sighs. “I don’t know.” 

Castiel decides to start at the very bottom of the ladder and work their way up. “Do you want me to stay?”

Dean’s head snaps up. “What? Of course I want you to fucking stay. Cas don’t –”

He holds up a hand to cut him off. “I’m not planning on going anywhere. I’m just trying to work out what it is _exactly_ that you’re confused about.”

“Well for starters there’s the fact I’ve been dying to just rip your clothes off for weeks now and we’ve been so damn close at times and _fuck_ do I want it, but then I remember about the whole… you know, dick thing, and the alarm bells in my head start ringing and I can’t shut them off!” 

“We don’t have to –” Castiel starts, but is cut off when Dean stands up swiftly, making the table shake when his hip hits it.

“No! I’m not a goddamn coward! I want this, and you want this, and I’ll be fucked if we can’t have it.” He pauses. “Actually, one of us is gonna be fucked either way, but in the _sexy_ way, not the ‘Dean’s too much of a fucking girl to have sex’ way.” He swipes up his car keys and storms toward the door. “I’ll be back later and we’re gonna do this all proper.”

Castiel frowns, and Dean takes this as a cue to elaborate. “Lasagne!” he says sharply (which really isn’t much of an elaboration and if anything leaves Castiel feeling more confused than before) and then the door shuts behind him. 

He blinks at the now empty motel room and wonders what exactly he just got himself into. 

* * *

It’s just sex, Dean reminds himself. He’s done this a thousand times before. It’s just completely normal sex, with someone he not only finds as hot as hell but also feels the word starting with ‘ _l_ ’ toward. Except, that is, for the fact that there are two penises and someone’s getting something shoved up their ass and Dean should find that thought uncomfortable _except he doesn’t goddamnit_. 

He doesn’t know how to do this. He didn’t lie when he said that him and Cas have been pretty close several times to just screwing it all (both figuratively and literally) and doing the horizontal tango because it felt good and the time was right. But then there had been interrupting Bobby’s and moose and other things seemingly sent by the universe at the moment they were _just_ to continue Dean’s ongoing streak of celibacy, which when he thinks about it is getting ridiculous because he hasn’t gotten laid since Anna and that was _months_ ago. 

So maybe when he thinks about it he really wants to get into Cas’ pants. Like _really_ , _really_ wants to, to the point that he’s been doing more jerking off than actual showering lately. But fucking fuck from fuck-town, he’s scared, because he doesn’t know how to do it with a guy, and he doesn’t know if there are some sort of special condoms he’s supposed to buy or if he needs flavoured lube or ‘lubricant with extra lubrication’ or whether he should get a bottle or a sachet or _what the fuck_ he’s doing standing here in a sex shop looking at the watermelon flavoured lube.

“Can I help you?” a young tattooed woman asks, and Dean nearly chokes on air (which would be a shit way to die) because he doesn’t want help. Maybe he _needs_ it, but he usually just knows these kinds of things and it’s _embarrassing_. 

“I’m, uh, looking for,” Dean clears his throat. “Stuff.”

She just looks bored and irritated and glares at him before saying, “What kind of _stuff_ , Ken-doll.”

He clears his throat again. “My, uh, a friend of mine is looking for some… you know. Sex stuff. For his partner. My other friend. Who’s a guy as well.”

She gives him a look, eyes raking over his body before landing back up on his eyes. “How tight are you?”

Dean nearly chokes again, and ends up coughing for a good ten seconds before he can find air to answer. “ _What_?”

“How tight are you? In relation to your, uh, _friend’s_ size obviously.” 

Dean can feel his ears turning red. He should have just grabbed some medium priced condoms and lube from a goddamn convenience store instead of trying to get the fancy stuff. “No one’s sticking their anything in my anywhere,” he says pointedly. 

The shop assistant fixes him with another bored glance and goes on. “Okay, then it depends on what you like. Bondage, BDSM, your partners cock tasting like jellybeans, feet –”

“Okay enough!” Dean shouts, nearly knocking over a display of pointy things that look more like something he’d use to go up against a monster than anything he’d put near his important bits thank-you-very-much. “I’ll just… _convenience store_ ,” he says sharply as he opens the door, which is clad in red velvet like something out of a really bad porno. Not that Dean would know. 

“Have a nice day!” the woman calls after him, and he can practically _taste_ her smirk.

When’s he’s out on the curb, a safe distance away from the pointy things and jellybean-condoms, he takes a deep breath and forces himself to calm down. He can do this. Cas doesn’t want – or need – fancy, weird, kinky things for kinks Dean doesn’t even know if he has. All they need is something to help with the… ass prodding, and some condoms, and that’s it. He isn’t sure when sex became this complicated.

 He has no idea how this is going to play out. He doesn’t want to overthink things because then he’ll just scare himself and they won’t get anywhere for another three months, and he really can’t handle many more desperate wanks full of imaginary-Cas, who isn’t even as sexy as real-Cas. He wants them to make tonight special though – at least a little bit – because Cas is doing the deed for the first time after all, and it’s Dean’s first time with… the dick thing. 

An hour later he’s in his car and driving back to the motel, complete with lasagne and a bottle of wine (because he’s gonna do this properly goddamnit), a bottle of lube (which was the most expensive one the convenience store had so it better work) and some condoms (which he already owns, but this box is just for him and Cas, as weird as that is). He finds himself standing outside their room, ready to open the door, but then he thinks better of it because things will just be awkward, and decides he’ll go hang out with Sam for a few hours, or until he kicks him out for being annoying. Whichever comes first.

“I’m coming in,” he shouts. “Better not be watching pay for view.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Sam replies, and then the latch unclicks and the door is swinging open. 

“Just a precaution,” he holds up his hands defensively, shopping bag swinging from his wrist. “Hey, can I put this stuff in your fridge?”

“What’s wrong with yours?” Sam frowns. 

“Nothing, just don’t want Cas to see it. It’s a surprise.”

Sam makes a noise that expresses something along the lines of ‘ _holy crap, Dean, that’s disgusting get the fuck away from me I think I’m gonna throw up_.’ “Is it some weird, gay, kinky thing?” he hisses. “ _Dude_ , that’s disgusting. Get it out of my fridge!” 

“No! Why does everyone think –” he shakes his head. “It’s _lasagne_.” 

“Since when do you buy _lasagne_?” Sam asks, sounding almost more horrified than at the thought of ‘weird, gay, kinky things.’ 

“Since today.”

“ _What_?”

“What?” Dean says as he slides the wine (which really is a girl drink but Cas seemed to like it that time at the restaurant, and it sure is more romantic than whiskey) and lasagne into Sam’s fridge, next to his bottles of water and something that looks like baby spew with lettuce on top. 

Sam’s quiet for a moment. “Are you planning something?” he asks suspiciously. 

“None of your business if I am,” Dean replies haughtily, because the last thing he wants is to be spilling the details of his (soon to be existent) sex life to his little brother. 

“What’s in the shopping bag?” he asks, trying to grab it out of Dean’s hands.

“Your face!” and maybe that wasn’t the most articulate comeback, but Sam’s being a nosy bitch.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” He makes another swipe for the bag, and in trying to keep it away from him, Dean falls backwards onto Sam’s bed, and eventually, after a scrabble of limbs, wherein Dean’s chances of victory were almost null, because Sam’s a Sasquatch, Sam stands up victoriously, the bag hanging from his hand. 

“You don’t wanna do that,” Dean warns.

Sam ignores him and reaches in, pulling out the bottle before he looks to see what it is. Dean closes his eyes and tries to ignore his rising blush. “Promiscuous Time’s Unflavoured Lubricant Especially For _Him_ ,” Sam reads, and then there is a disgusted shout and the bottle lands in Dean’s lap, him scrambling to catch it before it falls to the floor. 

“ _Oh my god_ that’s gross!” Sam says, sounding like a twelve-year-old girl who just caught her parents going at it in the basement. 

“I told you not to look in the bag!” 

“Why do you have _lube_?” Sam asks, and Dean is pretty sure that he just lost his position as the ‘smart’ Winchester. 

“So I can have sex with my goddamn boyfriend!” he shouts, which makes Sam freeze.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says quietly after a beat.  

“Yes, now could you please leave well enough alone and stop shouting so Cas doesn’t hear because it’ll ruin the fucking surprise, you ass!” 

Sam blinks at Dean for a moment, before pulling a chair over from the dining table and sitting down, arms resting against the back and Sasquatch-legs hooked around and tapping intermittently against the carpet. “So…” he begins.

“Don’t!” Dean holds up a hand. “We are _not_ discussing this.”

“So you and Cas haven’t had… you know, _sex_ before,” he asks, his voice choked and so falsely upbeat it’s pathetic. If Cas were a girl, Dean bets Sam wouldn’t give a shit what went on behind closed doors, but because he’s a dude and a virgin and Dean’s not gay and _blah, blah, blah_ Sam is inevitably going to be a little shit about the entire ordeal. His intentions are good – there is no doubting that – but that does not reduce the level of little shit he’s working at.

“Does it matter?” Dean shoves the bottle back into the bag and stands up, walking over to the other side of the room and pulling a beer out of the fridge. “None of your freaking business anyway.”

Dean sees Sam hold up his hands defensively out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t turn around. “Hey, I was just asking. I want you to be safe.”

Dean groans and slams his beer down on the counter. “Are you really gonna give me a safe-sex talk, Sammy? I’ve slept with more chicks than you’ve ever even _seen_. Zero-point-zero. _That’s_ your high-school hook-up rate.” 

“Shut up. I meant I want to make sure that you’re okay.”

Dean turns around, leaning back against the counter and taking a swig from his beer. “You know what? I think I actually am.” 

“You’re not… I don’t know. Scared?” Sam shrugs. 

Dean replicates the gesture, and finds himself feeling more relaxed than he has any right to be. “Guess so. But it doesn’t matter because I’m _good_. I really am. For the first time in forever I think we’re all just… good.” 

Sam stands up and comes to lean next to him. “I’m really, really happy for you Dean. You deserve Cas.” 

“Sometimes I’m not sure if I do, but fuck it, because I love him,” he doesn’t realise what he’s saying until the words are out of his mouth, but he means them and he can see that Sam knows he does and _is_ genuinely happy for him. “I really, honest to God, love him, Sam, and even if I don’t deserve him or he don’t deserve me then it’s not important because I _love_ him.” 

Sam grunts and pushes himself up off the counter again. “Dude, even by my standards that’s sappy.” 

“Shut up,” Dean mumbles, but he’s smiling because he just can’t seem to help it these days. 

“Jerk,” Sam says warmly.

“Bitch.”

Sam meets his eyes and Dean thinks that this might be his little brother letting him go. Sam has never asked Dean to be there with him as much as he is, but it’s just been an unspoken desire, a conformity of what it means to be a Winchester. Dean’s always been the more dependant one, but maybe that’s only because he didn’t really register how much his little brother needs – _needed_ – him. It’s not his and Cas’ kind of need; its different to that. It’s the ineffable desire to protect and to stand at one’s side, as a brother and a protector, shielding them from harm. 

So maybe this isn’t Sam _letting him go_ so much as extending his reach, loosening it a bit, because he understands that Cas has filled a hole in Dean that no amount of brotherhood or family really could. He’s not gonna stop caring about Sam any less because he’s got Cas – that’s like saying he’s gonna suddenly hate apple pie when he gets a slice of cherry – but he’s dividing the space in his heart, and Sam gets that and understands and is _okay_ with it all. Even if it isn’t as strong as what Dean feels, Sam cares about Cas too.   

“You’re still my brother,” Dean clarifies, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Just ‘cause I’ve got a… Cas.” 

“Aw, Dean’s growing up,” Sam says with an over exaggerated pout and one of those fake baby voices that make Dean’s skin crawl. 

“We were having a moment!” but Dean’s not really fussed that the moment is over. They don’t live in a movie; they don’t have set dialogue and cues and conversations that flow from start to finish without stupid responses and slips of the tongue. 

“So what do you say we watch a movie before you go…” Sam blushes. “Go see Cas.” 

There are an endless amount of witty and hilarious things Dean could come back with, most of which would scar Sam for life, but instead he just pushes the plastic shopping bag to the back of the counter, flops himself down on the floor and throws the remote to Sam. “No chick flicks,” he says. 


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

Dean vaguely thinks that this is like a second chance at the high-school experience he never got because he was too busy sleeping around and not giving a fuck. He’s standing outside Cas’ motel room – _their_ motel room for fucks sake – his clothes and hair as neat as he could make them, a bottle of wine heavy in his jacket pocket and a freshly-microwaved lasagne resting on a paper plate in his hand. He wipes his empty palm against his jeans, thinking that he should have just bit the bullet and gone back into the motel room to find some pants that don’t have rips in the knees before officially starting all this, and maybe one of his few shirts that are free from either oil or blood stains.

Crap, he can’t do this.                              

He wants to, but he feels like he’s either about to spontaneously combust or sink into the floor, because he doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous about something. If you’d asked him yesterday, he would have said nerves and fear are the same thing, but they’re not. Fear is this big, dark shadow threatening to eat you up whereas nerves are more like… butterflies. Except butterflies that were the unfortunate result of a science experiment gone wrong and are now the size of Mothra.

He’s steeling himself to knock (even though it’s _his room_ ) when Cas’ voice calls out. “Dean, what are you doing?”

The door swings open and Cas is standing there, and Dean yet again feels like a character in a goddamn chick flick. His hair is messy, spikes pointing in every direction and a few loose tendrils hanging lazily over his forehead, looking almost exactly the same as it did when they got out of bed that morning. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, showing off his lean, muscular arms and the top few buttons undone, first hints of his collarbone peeking through.

His head is cocked to the side, blue eyes surveying Dean as he fumbles for something, _anything_ , to say. “You look really nice,” he blurts, and then feels himself turning red because if that’s not a chick-flick line then he doesn’t know what is. “I mean, uh, I brought… I brought food?”

Cas chooses to ignore his almost incoherent floundering and instead smiles, his entire face lighting up in that way it does, and takes the plate from Dean. He places it on the table, and maybe Dean should be following him in right now, but he doesn’t know because this is going to be done properly and he doesn’t know how to do it properly. He isn’t some awkward teenager finally ready to reach third-base, but there might be _rules_ or something that he isn’t aware of and he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

“Why are you standing in the doorway?” Cas frowns, suddenly right up in Dean’s personal space.

“I was…” and then Cas’ eyes meet his and everything he may have been about to say goes down the drain. The blue that never fails to melt Dean’s insides and bring upon the feeling of drowning is consuming his vision; both his consciousness and his line of sight being drawn directly toward it, all else gone. And then there are lips on his and he isn’t sure what’s going on except there’s kissing and he’s all for that.

Cas is shoving him up against the doorframe, the wood pressing uncomfortably into his back but meaningless when accompanied by the rush of Cas’ mouth and the drag of his hands through Dean’s hair and over his shoulders. “Where were you today?” he breathes between kisses.

Dean lets out a satisfied noise as Cas starts to suckle on the underside of his jaw. “I was getting stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Important stuff,” but then Dean thinks that if his day of awkward shopping and watching superhero flicks with Sam could have been instead filled with _this_ then maybe it wasn’t so important.

“I missed you,” Cas says, laying another deep kiss to Dean’s mouth, tongue flicking out to run along his bottom lip.

Dean makes a noise of general affirmation (because speech is overrated anyway) and lets Cas show him just _how much_ he missed him, and holy fuck if it means getting kissed like this then Dean’s gonna leave Cas on his own more often. Except he couldn’t do that because they’re both clingy bastards.

“Wait, wait,” Dean says, pulling back, his head knocking against the wall. “We were supposed to do this properly.”

Cas glares at him, apparently not giving a shit about what they were supposed to do.

“I brought wine,” Dean says, pulling the bottle out from his jacket. “And the lasagne. I thought we could dim the lights and put on some Zeppelin and have a nice dinner before… you know.” The idea sounds stupid when he says it aloud, and if he didn’t love Cas so damn much he’d want to just sink into the floor and pop back up in Slovakia.

Cas tilts his head to the side, face impassive. “You wanted to stage a date?”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno, I guess.”

Cas kisses him softly before pulling away – their faces still only inches apart – and saying, “Dean, you know that things never go to plan. It isn’t us.” Much to Dean’s surprise, Cas doesn’t sound embarrassed or offended or disgusted or any of the other things that he had half-expected and now realises are preposterous. His voice is warm and affectionate, and Dean realises he’s right. Things never _do_ go to plan, and so trying to write out a script and shape how things would go was a foolish move on Dean’s behalf.

“I wanted to make it special,” he whispers.                                         

Cas smiles and kisses him again. Without pulling away he grabs the wine bottle out of Dean’s hand and deposits it on the windowsill next to the door. He entwines his fingers with Dean’s, places the other hand on his hip and with careful, slow steps guides them inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

Dean’s heart is beating at a hundred miles an hour, thrumming against his ribcage with such a force that he wouldn’t be surprised if Sam could hear it in the next room. Cas guides him around, steady hands pushing him forward without breaking the kiss and then Dean’s being gently pushed down onto the bed, Cas somewhere between straddling his lap and crouching.

“Wait,” Dean says, and he finds he’s been saying that a lot tonight. “Don’t you wanna eat first?” He goes to stand up while finishing with, “I can go put some music on –”

“Dean,” Cas holds him back down. “We don’t need to cover this in frills.”

“I want it to be special for you,” Dean says, squeezing his hand.

“I don’t need music and wine,” he emphasises by pushing Dean down onto the soft mattress and laying a chaste kiss to his jaw. “Just by being here with you, this is special.”

Now he is most definitely straddling Dean. He holds both his hands, one lying beside their hips and the other pinned up above Dean’s head. In a single movement he sweeps down and lays his lips to Dean’s, kisses slow and passionate, tongue delving deeply into his mouth and breath mingling together when he pulls back to inhale. There is no urgency his in touch, but it is still filled with heat of a magnitude that Dean’s never experienced. His fingers squeeze down tighter around Castiel’s as he nips at the skin on Dean’s neck, tongue flecking out to cool the sharp burn.

Dean brings his legs up as best he can and then, using all his strength, heaves them over so that he’s lying on top of Cas, the latter’s legs encircling his waist. Castiel’s eyes are wide and his breathing laboured, lips swollen and raw and cheeks already flushed. Dean swallows and moves his gaze away, dipping down to lay a line of kisses from the corner of Cas’ mouth down to his collarbone. Cas lets out a heavy breath and his legs tighten around Dean’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back.

When their mouths meet again it’s needier than before, where tongues danced together slowly, now pressing and lapping with the familiar lust-driven urgency that Dean is used to. Cas grabs Dean’s shoulders and rolls them over again, and he feels a jolt of emotion that has nothing to do with his physical movement. Dean isn’t usually one for letting others take the lead, but he _really_ doesn’t mind when it’s Cas, because there’s just something about him. Having Cas hold him down – gentle enough that he could pull away but hard enough to show that he doesn’t _want_ him to – is strangely… _hot_. Not in a weird, kinky way or anything; more of a _Cas is sexy when he’s in charge_ way.

They do nothing but kiss for an indeterminable amount of minutes, sometimes slow and sometimes fast, learning each other properly, gaining rhythm and tempo until they slot together, hands and mouths without barrier. Dean feels warm, effervescent, like this is right where he is supposed to be, because maybe it is. Cas pulls back, leaving Dean with a sudden feeling of emptiness, but then he grabs his shoulders and pulls him into a sitting position, mouths smashing together again as he pushes Dean’s jacket off his shoulders, rough material sliding down Dean’s arms and then being thrown in a heap on the floor.

It’s starting, he thinks, and this time it’s not going to be stopped. This is it, the beginning of the final step, the one that will send Dean even further off the edge than he already is, tumbling into the depths of the ocean, consumed by a fire that burns even in the deep. For a moment he contemplates pulling away, but then he opens his eyes and is met by orbs of blue, open and trusting and full of a love that Dean has never seen anywhere else. So maybe he wants this a whole lot more than he might have let on.

His fear is rising, but so is the heat in the pit of his stomach as Castiel’s deft fingers begin to unbutton his own shirt, slow and teasing, eyes’ catching Dean’s through a veil of dark lashes. Dean realises, with a stab of surprise, that he’s never actually _seen_ Cas shirtless before, and struggles to swallow down the lump in his throat when collarbones are exposed in the full, and then pink nipples and lean torso and the angular, sloping curve of his hipbones, dipping down below his waistband along with a light dusting of hair from his navel.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, his voice soft, hand finding Dean’s and thumb running reassuringly across his own, whispering silent promises that this will be okay, that they don’t have to do this.

Dean meets his eyes, and, because words never were his forte, leans in for a kiss, hand sliding up to cup the back of his head. Cas pushes him back down, hands moving from Dean for a beat before resting on his lower stomach, fingers curling into the material of his shirt and pushing upwards, lips disjoining to pull it over his head in a single, fleeting movement.

And then their chests touch together and Dean is, as has become familiar in recent months, drowning. The sensation swallows him, pushing his body down beneath the surface, sparks of electricity emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once, sending tingles through him, as well as sharper, charged jolts when hands join the fray, fingernails curling into exposed skin.

Castiel grasps Dean’s hips and pushes him down once again, but this time the contact is fleeting, waists remaining pressed together but hands kept hanging and touching nothing. His eyes glide over Dean, and he can’t hold back a gasp when Cas presses his palm deliberately to the mark on his shoulder. In all honestly, its presence had almost slipped from his mind. It has become a part of him, just as much as the jagged scar on his thigh or his tattoo, something brushed over when washing or changing clothes but rarely given any thought. His pulse stutters when Cas’ fingers line up with the raised marks left by that very same hand what now seems centuries ago, but is in reality mere months.

Dean’s breath is caught in his throat, and if by the way Castiel is staring at him, open-mouthed and cloudy eyed, then his is too. “ _Dean_ ,” he whispers, gratingly low, fingers curling around the scar. His right hand finds Dean’s left, bringing it up to rest between their bare chests, thumb twirling the ring on his finger once before letting it drop.

Maybe he should have realised it earlier, but Dean is completely and utterly and hopelessly _Castiel’s_. Cas is his angel, but he belongs to Cas maybe even more, and, scarily enough, he’s _okay_ with that.

The moment of stillness is over in a second, their eyes meeting and the flame that Dean knows they both feels leaping up again. Cas presses an almost painfully frantic kiss to his mouth, hands grating down his chest to dust across his nipples. Dean moans unwillingly, his hands flying up to Cas back. Things are no longer slow. At the first real drag of hips Dean’s fingernails press into Castiel’s skin and their mouths move apart, gasping against each other’s lips.

Movements turn rampant, hands grasping at thighs and guiding hips forward, and suddenly there is too much material between them, thick, unneeded walls separating the warmth of their bodies. Castiel’s feet scrabble with Dean’s own, frantically trying to remove shoes and socks without breaking the contact meanwhile engaged by lips and hands and rigid chests. After seconds of fruitless, awkward kicking Castiel sits up, sending a glare in the direction of their feet, like they have wronged him on a very personal, deep level. Dean can’t really do much except lay there, his chest heaving, as Castiel drops to the floor and starts unlacing his boots, agile fingers pulling them off Dean’s feet in moments, followed by Dean’s socks and then his own.

Dean watches, transfixed and brain slightly addled, as hands scrape up his calves, coming to rest under the curve of his knees. Blue eyes meet his and then fingers are pushing into his thighs, massaging and stroking through the denim, digging into all the correct places and making Dean ache for further contact. Then Cas’ mouth is pressing just to the right of his groin, the drag of teeth and suckle of lips electrifying despite the barriers, and Dean vaguely, quietly wonders when Cas because such a goddamn tease.

“Fuck, Cas,” he whispers, hands bunching in the sheets, his resolve crumbling, everything falling apart from the slightest ghost of a touch.

“That is the general idea,” he replies, his voice muffled and full of gravel and amusement and lust and _love_ and a billion other things that swirl together and push themselves in waves of unsaid emotion toward Dean, burrowing into the recesses of his soul where he knows they’ll stay forever, yet more marks left by Cas, reassuring both of them that they belong to each other.

As Cas’ fingers unzip Dean’s fly, he finds himself remarkably _not_ -terrified. Sure, there is still an incessant ringing in the back of his skull, screaming at him to stop because this isn’t right, but he thinks it’s more of an old emotion refusing to move on, a spirit of something he once felt, now simply haunting his resolve and dripping poison in his ear. He wants this more than he has ever wanted anything, and it _is_ right. Him and Cas fit together, broken pieces and whole pieces and everything in between, creating something new that neither of them would ever dream of crushing.

Jeans are being pushed down, pooling around his knees as, with a hesitant glance toward him, Castiel’s fingers trace the outline of his arousal through his underwear. “ _Cas_ ,” he moans, under no illusion that he needs to hold himself back.

He doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes until Cas’ other hand is brushing against his eyelids. “Dean, are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, meeting his eyes when they slide open.

“Yes,” is all he can say, because it’s all there is. For once things don’t need to be over-complicated; just him and Cas and everything that is and will come to be.

Castiel’s touch is diffident as he pulls down Dean’s briefs, fingers dragging along the inside of his thighs as he brings them down, pushing them and his jeans away. His eyes don’t leave Dean’s when he presses the first chaste kiss to his hipbone, crouched down on the floor at the edge of the bed, physically kept upright by his hold on Dean’s thighs, just as he is kept upright in every other aspect of their lives by Dean, and vice versa.

Because he isn’t good with saying what he means with words, he lets his eyes speak for him, willing Castiel to understand that it’s okay, and his hands, coming to rest lightly on top of Castiel’s. When the first touch of Cas’ mouth reaches Dean’s cock, a breathy sigh echoes from his lips, hand pressing down tighter onto Castiel’s.

He lays kisses up the shaft, and Dean is exploding with need, craving more, feeling heavy and hot. It usually takes more than wandering mouths and carding hands and a few grinds of hips to make Dean feel this wanton, but there’s something about Cas that sends him stumbling and spiralling downwards in the most brilliant way possible.

Castiel’s movements are slow and exploratory, tongue circling the head of Dean’s length before sliding down, warm and wet against his tenderised skin. Dean’s breaths come out in gasps, which then turn to moans when Cas encloses his mouth around him, cheeks hollowing out as he runs, unbearably slowly, from the top to bottom. Dean’s had this done to him before, by some girls who were most evidently _very_ experienced, but there’s something about the clumsy shift of Cas’ mouth, the less-than-pleasant scrapes of teeth and the way he doesn’t seem quite sure about what to do with his tongue that is making Dean fall apart. Cas’ name tumbles from his lips when a hand reaches up to caress his balls, fingers then moving up to pump the base of his dick.

His pulse screams in his ears, throbs against Castiel’s mouth, beats against his chest as he tries, and fails, to keep the throaty cries at bay. He squeezes his hands down on Castiel’s shoulders to keep from thrusting upwards, his head lolling back against the sheets, vision blurring and sound turning muted, the sound of Castiel’s slick lips lapping at his skin and his heavy, shaky breathing fading into nothing.

Dean thinks how fucking _awesome_ Cas is at this, and how he’s probably never even seen this done before and so has no right to know how to do anything, but then Cas does something amazing and quite unexpected with his tongue and thinking becomes quite difficult.

“I want you to fuck me,” Dean blurts.                          

There is a sudden, striking lack of mouth-to-dick contact when Cas pulls away, hands still resting on the crest of Dean’s hips. It takes a moment for Dean’s mind to catch up, still overcome with desperate, aching, _burning_ heat that consumes him and leaves him wanting – _needing_ – more. He scrambles desperately for words, looking for something that will allow him to take back what he just said, but then he realises, with a jolt that is more unexpected than unpleasant, that he doesn’t _want_ to take it back.

Cas’ eyes meet his, pupils blown wide, only a thin band of blue remaining. He appraises Dean, head tilted to the side and, if one were to ignore his flushed cheeks and swollen lips and general aura of desperation, looking as calm as usual. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, the way one would confirm ordering pepperoni on a pizza.

Dean gasps and for a moment can’t find words. “I want you inside of me,” he whispers, scratchy and low. He isn’t sure where this sudden wave of bravado has come from, this willingness to do _this_ – his absolute, unquestionable _desire_ to do it. “I want you to do me Cas. Fuck me.”

Cas brings out things in him that he never even knew existed, but must have been bubbling under the surface for years and years, finally seeing the light of day only because of a certain fallen angel with a tendency to make Dean feel things he’s never felt before. He’s never let someone take this much control in sex, never let someone hold him down and kiss him senseless while they tear him apart and put him back together again just as promptly. He has never wanted a man like this before, there had never even been a moment of doubt about his sexuality until Cas came along and tore down his walls.

It’s not just sex though; there is everything else Cas brings to life, his compassionate side, the parts of him that are so full of self-loathing they are as black as Hell, his love to cuddle in the mornings, fall asleep holding onto someone, to entwine their hands, to kiss hello, to be friends and lovers all at the same time, the desire to _love_ and be loved in return, having someone there who is more than an idea in a far recess of his brain, to give everything and take everything in return.

He wants to give this to Cas, and if he gives it too much thought be knows he will start panicking, and so he’s just going to let things be what they are and go from there.

“Please Cas.”

Cas’ eyes fall shut and he shivers. “Dean,” he says slowly, dryly. “Are you sure?”

Dean reaches up, by a force of sheer will not moaning when his forearm brushes his leaking, sensitive cock, and rests his palms on Castiel’s back, just below his shoulders. “Yes,” he answers, putting everything he possibly can into the single word.

Cas stands up, but the brush of his hand against Dean’s knee reassures him that he isn’t going anywhere. He swiftly unbuckles his belt, eyes flickering to Dean’s as he lets his pants drop, sending a shiver down Dean’s spine. As he watches Cas shimmy out of his boxers, as graceful now as he is in anything else, he finds his hand drifting down to his cock, massaging with the palm of his hand.

“No,” Castiel growls.

“Cas –” Dean begins, his voice a needy whine.

“No,” he repeats, climbing back onto the bed and straddling Dean’s waist. And just like that, the time for words is over. Their mouths meet in a messy kiss, gasping, pulling, pressing together. Dean’s hands find Castiel’s waist and, fingers hooking into the dip at the small of his back, he rolls his hips upwards.

Cas lets out a choked cry, his forehead coming to rest in the curve below Dean’s jaw. His dick slides against Dean’s thigh and then, with a mutual shift of hips, they are once again slotting together perfectly. This is so different to anything that Dean’s ever done before, and _so_ much better. Where he is used to supple breasts and soft thighs, Cas is all flat, sharp angles, muscle and strength, a driving, encompassing force that brings Dean to his knees. Their cocks slot together; a rhythm is found. Bodies turn from pliant to rigid in seconds, arching and falling as one, hands grasping hips and hair, seeking purchase anywhere it can be found.

“Jacket,” Dean chokes out. “Jacket pocket. Condoms.” If they don’t get moving soon, then Dean’s going to come like this, hands tangled in Cas’ hair as he writhes and pushes above him.

Cas’ lips pull away from his shoulder with a breathless gasp, hands scraping down his sides. He blinks incomprehensively for a moment, before Dean repeats himself. “Fuck, Cas, now.”

He sits up, both of them letting out a collective gasp when their hips brush together. In a scramble of fast, desperate movements, Castiel is standing up, sifting through the clothes on the floor and then climbing back up onto the bed, a foil packet and the small, plastic bottle in his hand.

He sits cross-legged on the sheets next to Dean, face impassive and calm, eyes roaming over his body in a way that makes Dean shiver. He’s used to the copious amounts of eye contact and staring that come with being near Castel for any amount of time, so much that he barely even notices the whole _staring into your soul_ thing anymore, but this is _different_. He’s bared and open on the middle of their bed, naked, wanting, dick heavy and leaking against his stomach, waiting for Castiel to make the next move.

He’s just _watching_ Dean, eyes staying locked to his as he rips open the condom wrapper. Dean doesn’t know where to look, and decides that either way it’s going to be painfully sexy, and so closes his eyes and tips his head back against the blankets. The heat in the pit of his stomach is twisting, curling, pushing upwards and outwards and demanding to be felt, craving something to make it grow. His mind is a chaotic melange of thoughts and sensations, all of which are laced with the need for rough hands and smooth skin running against his.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks softly, his voice close to Dean’s ear.

“Stop asking that,” he grates, opening his eyes and laying a trail of kisses across Castiel’s jaw. If he didn’t want this, then he would have told Cas to stop, knowing full well that he’d understand. Dean’s _ready_ , and even if he didn’t necessarily think that he’d be the one bottoming (not that he really thought that point through at all) he _wants_ it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Cas whispers, his hand flying around to cup the cheek of Dean’s ass.

“Well I’ll be fucked if I do,” Dean manages to say, honestly surprised that he can form entire sentences. He rolls his hips forward, dick running along the side of Cas’ hip.

He lets out a throaty cry, making it evident that his need is as aching as Dean’s, hands clamping down on Dean’s shoulders. “Lie on your back,” he gasps.

Dean obliges, sinking fluidly back onto the pillows, head knocking against the wood of the bed-head. “How do we do this?” he says quietly, meeting Cas’ eyes. Despite the fact that he knows Cas is just as new to this as he is, he’s _embarrassed_. He’s supposed to be the one who is all _gung-ho_ _sex_ , because this is what he does. Or, to reiterate, _did_. Sex used to be one of the few simple, uncomplicated things in his life; something he could get in a heartbeat and basically do with what he may. But now, as with everything, it has lost its simplicity, turning into a whirlwind of confusion, of awkward hands and unexperienced lips, but, all the same, is so much easier than anything else he’s ever done, because it’s _right_. 

“I believe I must prepare you so as to avoid injury,” Cas says.

Dean chuckles and lets his head fall back. “Pillow talk, Cas.”

“My apologies,” but then the teasing nip at Dean’s neck lets him know that Cas isn’t particularly sorry at all, because he’s a stupid, wonderful, son of a bitch.

From there things are slow and laced with more fumbling that any other escapade Dean has been a part of. Cas has trouble uncorking the bottle of lube, and Dean has to assist him, and then they spill some on the sheets before Cas manages to get it on his hand. Their eyes are both drawn to Castiel’s cock as he strokes it, smearing it in lube, long, teasing fingers pulling and twisting, making it twitch and Cas to let out a rasping moan.

He grabs Dean’s hips, dragging him forward, hands murmuring against his thighs before they come to rest on the curve of his ass. A finger teases against his entrance, circling the hole, cold, slicked fingers pressing and pulling at his skin. Dean grunts and pushes his hips forward. “Do you want me to –” Cas begins, but with another push Dean gives his answer, sliding the tip of Cas’ finger into him.

The sensation is odd. As Cas’ pointer moves in further, a sharp, painful burn travels through Dean, and he can’t hold back a gasp. It’s tight, like the space is far too small for something like this, a presence forcing its way into an existence too fragile to contain it. “Dean,” Cas says, his voice laced with worry, but Dean’s hand finds his and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“Keep going. I’m okay.”

It takes a few more moments of searing discomfort, tight muscles fighting against the finger making itself at home, but then it _is_ okay. Dean grunts, this time in pleasure, rough skin filling him up, twirling around inside him. He feels full and empty all at the same time, his muscles loosening and adjusting until the touch is too humble. “More,” he says, fingers digging into Cas’ palm. “Another one. I’m good.” 

“Are you sure?” Cas asks, but his voice sounds cracked, like he too is falling apart, hanging by a thread and aching for the burn that will sever it and send him cascading outwards in waves.  

“Stop…” Dean struggles to form a sentence when Cas’ finger brushes against something that, if his deductive skills count for anything, is most definitely his prostate because _holy fuck_. “Stop being a wuss.”

A second finger joins the fray, and this time it doesn’t take as long for Dean to adjust. They scissor outwards, sending a ferocious rush of heat through him, and he finds himself calling out, moaning, screaming Cas’ name.

“ _Dean_ ,” he grates in reply. “Dean I need to…”

“Do it,” and then with a hand to Castiel’s shoulder, “Now.”

Dean doesn’t know how these things work. He doesn’t know how long they’re supposed to spend loosening him up before they go in for gold, whether there is a special position they have to lay in, or if his hands are supposed to rest in a certain place, but when Cas brings him up onto his lap, lips pressing to the side of his jaw and hands burning against his hips, he knows that they must be doing something right. Dean’s aching, empty at the lack fingers, but then Castiel’s length presses against his hole and sensation turns turbulent, static flaring from where their skin contacts, warmth bubbling up from inside him, getting lost in the tidal-wave of heat that emanates from Cas.

Cas pushes himself upwards slowly, waiting for Dean’s hands on his hips to loosen before he continues on. At times it is more painful than even the first finger was, _too much_ , too heavy, a sun’s rays too brilliant for the galaxy it resides in, burning it all to a crisp and leaving nothing but pain. But then Cas’ lips meet his, barely even touching, mouths resting together as the burn resides. Cas’ hands splay out across his skin, one on his hip and the other on the rise of his back, fingers whispering comfort.

And then Cas is in him, fully and without break. As one they sigh, chests pressing together, seeking to break every inch of space between them, electricity exploding outwards. Their lips meet, and every piece of Dean is filled with a piece of Cas. He thrusts upwards, tiny and tentative at first, a miniscule slide of muscles that nonetheless brings Dean apart even further.

“Fuck,” he moans against Cas hair. “Fuck this is good.”

He is past having the self-control to lie or pretend that this is something it isn’t. Saying that it’s _good_ is, if anything, a colossal understatement; like saying that Cas’ eyes are blue, or that sometimes Dean gets sad. It’s _everything_ , a storm of emotion and sensation, the epitome of their relationship, a relentless gale of skin touching skin and shifting hands and the _pull_ and _push_ of bodies.

They have twisted around, Cas’ back leaning against the wall, his hands resting on Dean’s shoulders as he thrusts upwards. Dean can feel him move inside of him, feel the way his cock twitches in response to their every shift. It’s slow at first; deliberate, fluid, timed pushes, Dean’s body pulling back as Cas’ moves forward.

Dean’s breath is coming out in huffs, forehead resting against Castiel’s. His own dick is twitching between them, needing _anything_ to help contend with the weight moving inside of him, bringing him closer and closer to his peak, but not close enough. The heat twists inside him in time with Cas’ thrusts, moving forwards and backwards and up and down, slamming against him, filling him with pleasure, with burning, aching desire.

His hands move from where they lay on Castiel’s chest to wrap around his pulsing length, but before he can even complete one stroke, rough fingers are grasping his and pulling them away. “Not yet,” Cas whispers against his skin.

Their mouths meet, wet and frantic, tongues dragging together, often sweeping over necks or jaws instead of lips. The air is heavy, but in the most _beautiful_ , fervid way possible. Dean’s forefinger brushes against Castiel’s nipple and that’s all it takes for his movements to increase in pace and desperation. His hands slot onto Dean’s shoulders, fingers lining up with the scar as he pulls outwards – almost all the way, leaving Dean feeling empty – before slamming back in, sending arcs of pleasure through Dean, like nothing he has ever felt before.

“ _Castiel_ ,” he shouts, a loud, broken, impassioned cry, head lolling forward. He whispers his name like a chant, each breath replaced with a softly spoken mutter of _Castiel_.

Every thrust sends him soaring further toward his climax, Cas brushing against his prostate, Dean’s vision filling with stars; brilliant, light-blue flecks that permeate the dark when his eyes fall shut, only to be replaced by half-closed orbs of the same blue when he forces them open. Cas’ cock slides in him, fast and desperate, skin hitting skin with an audible slap when he slams himself back into Dean, lost to sensation and without abandon.

His head falls forward onto Dean’s shoulder, breaths hot against his skin, lips forming silent moans and the whispered shape of Dean’s name. His fingernails dig into his shoulders, like he is trying to ground himself, keep himself from being flung into the darkness. Or maybe there isn’t any darkness anymore. Maybe it is all light; burning, illuminating, guiding them toward their orgasms, and filling them quickly as it does.

“Dean, Dean, I’m –” Cas’ sentence trails off into a scratchy moan, rolling hips unceasing.

“Go,” Dean mutters in reply, his own hand flying to his dick, and then, in heartbeat, they are coming. Their zeniths rise up as one, bodies trembling and shaking, full of sharp, bliss-filled heat. Dean is drowning under the force of it, white-hot magma swallowing him under, stealing his air and his sight and his ability to think, leaving nothing but sensation. It flares from everywhere at once, pushing out from the pit of his stomach, in waves from Castiel, in sharp, jagged arcs from where their skin slides together.

Lips meet somewhere in the fray, and hands grasp at each other, seeking some purchase as they are blown down by the wind, grasping each other as the hurricane sends them tumbling, falling, _flying_ toward a utopia that is built purely of sensation. They ride it out together, bodies slamming together and lips echoing moans and near unintelligible whispers of each other’s names.

And then together they come down, collapsing, boneless, against the bed head, fingers having entwined, the exact moment that happened lost to Dean. They catch their breath, and then Cas kisses him, long and slow.

When he pulls back, he meets Dean’s eyes, gaze soft and reflecting how honestly and in definition _fucked-out_ he is. “Thank you,” he whispers, forehead resting against his cheek.

Dean wants to tell Cas how he shouldn’t be the one doing the thanking, and that it was everything for him that is was for Cas, but he doesn’t trust his mouth to say the words, and so his just kisses Castiel’s temple and gently, reluctantly, draws back. Cas seems to understand and pulls out of him, Dean wincing at the slight burn that he knows he will feel even more in the morning. Without speaking, Cas removes his condom, with a well-aimed throw tosses it into the trash can and uses a piece of clothing that could be a t-shirt quite as equally as it could be a sock to clean them up, wiping the come from Dean’s stomach, which he hadn’t even noticed amongst the pleasure of his downward crest.

Then Cas burrows under the blankets, his tug on Dean’s hand pulling him down too. He isn’t going to put up a fight, because he wouldn’t want to, not in a million years. The stars could fall from the sky and the oceans could dry up and the world could end – as it probably will once again find a way of doing – and Dean would still choose to be here with Castiel, basking in the glow of the moments they just created.

Cas isn’t an angel anymore. He has fallen, or is soon to be fallen, or maybe he fell months ago – Dean isn’t really sure. His grace is gone, and in many ways, today marks the end of something huge, something that ties in with so much of their history that it would be a crime not to acknowledge it.

But today was also a beginning. Dean gets it now; he gets why Cas wanted this _today_ ; not to take his mind off the fact he’s fallen, but to outshine that bad with a whole lot of good, so much that next to it the bad seems small. This was a milestone on the long, never-ending, maybe-not-as-straight-as-Dean-would-have-liked highway that is their life; something that they’ll keep with them forever, because it _means_ something.

Dean was deflowered long before he met Cas. _Long, long_ before he met Cas. Hell, if he’s being honest, he lost the right to call himself a virgin when he was fifteen. But all those years, all those women, all those one night stands in shady motel rooms and girlfriends who he dragged along just for the hell of it, there was never anything – _anyone_ – like Cas. This is something tangible, that he can see and feel and hold onto without fear of it slipping away. They have cemented the grip between them, marked their relationship with something that is usually so _small_ but is now one of the loudest, most important things Dean knows of.

It’s right then, staring into Cas’ eyes in the dim, fading evening light that filters in through the curtains, enveloped in his limbs and overcome with a warmth that is both physical and emanating from within, that it hits him. It _really_ hits him, like a cannon ball to the chest, and he knows, more surely than he’s known anything ever before, that he’s ready. Or maybe he isn’t ready, but life is fleeting, moments like this even more so, and while the willingness is there, he is going to use it.

“Hey Cas?”

“Yes Dean?” he replies, twisting their legs together.

“I love you,” he says, meaning it with everything that ever was, is and will be. Cas brought him in from the shadows, gave him everything and never asked for much in return; nothing but the gesture to be occasionally returned, and even then it was with sullen glances and the brush of fingers more than words. Dean has never liked to say things out loud, because it makes them permanent and real, but this, he decides, is something he _wants_ to stay with him until the end of days.

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of Cas’ mouth as he says, “I love you too, Dean,” without pause or hesitation.

As with everything, they fall asleep as one, no more words spoken between now and the morning. When the clock ticks over, the 26th of February greeting them with a fresh blanket of snow, neither of them wake. It passes insignificantly, lost among warm limbs and a soft oblivion, and when the last shard of Cas’ grace blinks from existence neither of them even notice.

The next morning the sun wakes them up and it is the start of a new day. A new day, and a new life, one that Dean is going to cling to with every inch of his being, fill it with love and warmth and days that will drag on forever, just him and Castiel; two broken things, shattered beyond repair, that together make something whole, something tangible.

And, quite honestly, Dean is happier than he has ever been.

 


	36. Epilogue

Up until recently, Castiel had never been one to disobey orders. He was, after all, an Angel of the Lord, and as Dean would say, being Heaven’s bitch was kind of a given.

Up until recently, Castiel had also been a respected warrior of God. Now he is – in every sense of the word – fallen. He allowed himself to become close to the humans, become one of them, and really, what he found was better than anything he could have gotten as an Angel of the Lord. 

He found a family; Sam Winchester, who was doomed to end the world but when the ultimatum was reached never did, a brother whom he would choose over any of his brethren in Heaven; Bobby, who, by default, has become something of a foster father, raising the Winchesters and accepting him wholeheartedly when he because a constant in their lives. And Dean. 

Dean, the love of his life, the single most important man to maybe ever walk the face of the earth, both in Heaven’s eyes and in his. But Castiel doesn’t care about Dean’s _destiny_ , because they gave up on destiny a long time ago, instead just caring about the little things; the gold flecks in his eyes at sunset, the way his pointer finger is rougher than the others, the way one leg twitches more than the other when he comes, screaming Castiel’s name. He doesn’t need for them to be anything more than themselves; Dean Winchester and his fallen angel.

But he isn’t _lost_ , quite the opposite in fact.

Falling starts fast, with a rush of colours that steals your breath and leaves you floundering, unable to differentiate the clouds from the sky and the sky from the cold ground beneath you, and you don’t know what’s happening. Then it slows down and the world comes into focus and, for a while, it almost feels like flying. Now for most, this state of blissful ignorance is over almost as soon as it begins; the ground will come and take them and that will be the end of everything. 

But not when there is a man waiting on the ground for you with his arms open, waiting to catch you and kiss you and tell you it’ll all be okay, even when it may not. Then, the impact doesn’t feel so much like a hit, it instead feels like taking flight, and Castiel for one knows that he will never come down.

Up until recently, Castiel had been lost, and he didn’t even know it. Now he’s slowly being found, pieces being sown haphazardly back together by Dean Winchester, who loves him and whom he loves back.

This is ultimately why Castiel, the Angel of Thursday, fell from grace. 

* * *

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to thimblings for the wonderful art, the masterpost of which can be found here (http://thimblings.livejournal.com/5863.html).  
> Also a huge thanks to Beth, who meticulously beta'd most of this fic, and whom without I never would have finished. And finally (at the risk of this turning into one of those ridiculous authors notes where I thank every single person who so much as breathed near me) I'd like to thank every single one of my Twitter followers who encouraged me to write and yelled at me for writing sad things that hurt them, which F.Y.I. is actually a huge self-esteem boost so, yeah, thanks so much guys. This has been a huge journey for me and its probably evident in my writing alone that I have learnt so much and improved my techniques and learnt new ways to torture both characters and readers.  
> And if you read this to the end, whoever you are, then really, I owe you the biggest thank you of all.


End file.
